


Bring You from the Rocks and Stones

by afrikate



Series: The Curse of Natalis [5]
Category: Alpha and Omega - Patricia Briggs, Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Canon-Typical Violence, Disabled Character, F/M, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-22 18:45:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 41,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15588336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrikate/pseuds/afrikate
Summary: In 1943, during a firefight turned ugly in the North African desert, Bucky Barnes is bitten by a werewolf. After capturing Barnes, Dr. Arnim Zola becomes intrigued with the possibilities werewolves present to Hydra. Unfortunately, one member of Hydra fails to read the instruction manual.Steve and Bucky are finally back in the same timeline. After 70 years, it shouldn’t really be a surprise that the dream team is having some trouble working together. Still, sometimes it’s easier to go after enemies than stay in one place and figure your shit out.Set in the MCU and the Mercy Thompson novels by Patricia Briggs. Readers do not need to be familiar with the books in order to enjoy this story. ***This fic is caught up to the Briggs-verse up through "Frost Burned" and "Dead Heat," but developments from later books aren't included.***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks go to my wonderful, amazing, fantastic beta [k8/paintedmaypole](http://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedmaypole/pseuds/k8). She pushed me to be a better writer, told me when I was overthinking things, and made me laugh really, really hard. Thanks so much, k8!
> 
> This is part 4 of 5. Part 4 is completely written and I'll be uploading over the next two weeks. (Part 5 is in beta and since it has lots of feelings, it might be a while until it's finished.)

Washington, DC, October 13, 2012

He's surrounded, hemmed in on all sides. There are seven teenagers standing in a half-circle around him. His back is against the wall of coffee beans. He can’t see the exit.

‘Terrible op sec, Rogers.’ Steve can hear Bucky’s voice in his head, in Bucky’s driest tones.

Steve guesses he's been too predictable, running the same route each morning, legs pounding, moving faster than normal people can, but it's the only time his brain _turns off_ these days.

Now, he’s standing in _his_ Starbucks, waiting for coffee, and they’re all holding sharpies and papers and _things_ at him. And he knows, _he knows_ they aren’t a threat, but he hates this. And he hates that he can’t even go for a fucking coffee without having to deal with being _seen_.

“Miss, I'm not--” he tries to use his Captain’s voice. The girl facing him ignores it, too excited that she’s caught him. He keeps an eye on the girl he's pegged as the leader. She’s thin and blonde, face perfectly made up even though it’s 6:40 on a Saturday morning. She’s smiling in a way that reminds him of sharks.

She pushes her friend aside and holds out a small pink book and a pen. “Captain Rogers, we just want to thank you for your service.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and… _Flutters her eyelashes at him?_ “You're so brave!”

Steve sighs, then flinches when a man steps up on his right. “Drew, what the hell are you doing?”

Steve turns, hands closing into fists, ready to fight. Then, he blinks. It’s Hot Jogger Guy. Steve represses a shiver.

He’s been watching this guy for weeks. He’s got the finest ass Steve has seen since 1945, Bucky’s included, and Steve has definitely spent a number of post-run showers thinking about it. This morning, he passed the guy three times, trying to get up the guts to say hello, ask him out. He’d choked every time, calling out “On your left!” and running away as fast as he could. It’s the fucking 21st century. It’s actually _legal_ to go with guys now, and Steve is _still_ shit at asking someone on a date.

Standing in the Starbucks, surrounded by earnest teenagers and the smell of stale coffee, Steve fumbles for something to say. Up close, the man's eyelashes are even more devastating. Then, the guy _winks at him_.

“Ladies,” the guy says. “I apologize for my friend Drew here.” He squeezes Steve's shoulder, shaking his head. “I know he looks a bit like Captain America, all blond and sh- uh, stuff.” He gives them a smile. “But, I was in Basic with this guy in 2002. You really don't want his autograph.”

The leader, the blonde girl, winces. She presses her lips together, crossing her arms over her chest. Her right hand is gripping her little pink book tight enough that Steve can see her knuckles going white. He feels bad, but he plays along anyway. “Yeah, sorry, ladies.” And then, because he _had_ lapped the guy this morning-- three times!-- he continues, “I was just waiting for him to show up-- he’s always been a little slow.”

The guy glances over at him, startled, and then smirks. “You see, ladies? Would Captain America be this much of a jerk?”

Several of the girls start to blush, and the leader looks down, shoulders hunched. “Sorry,” she mumbles. They head over to a table that has a good view of the door. Steve hears the girl say, “My sister swears Captain America’s been coming in here every Saturday after his run. I guess we just have to wait longer?”

Steve wonders if he should go-- he’s going to have to find another fucking Starbucks. Probably needs change his running route. (The voice in his head that sounds like Bucky tells him he should have been changing it up anyway.)

Steve glances over at Hot Jogger, who’s looking up at the menu board like he’s trying to decide what to order. He’s also biting his lip slightly. Steve stares for a second, imagines what it would feel like if he bit that plush lip. Then he thinks, ‘Fuck it.’

“Thanks, man.” Steve smiles and steps into the guy’s line of sight. “I really appreciate it.”

The guy gives a little shrug. “Naw, it’s fine, dude. Looked like you could use a little help is all.”

“Yeah, I, um--” Steve rubs back of his neck with his right hand. God, he hopes he’s not blushing as bad as he thinks he is. “Let me thank you properly?”

Mr. Eyelashes raises one perfect eyebrow.

“Let me take you to breakfast?” Steve winces. He said that too fast. He can hear the words slurring together as he talks.

The guy blinks, and then grins. “You wanna buy me breakfast?”

Hot Jogger shifts his weight a little, cocking a hip, and Steve can’t help but glance down. When he looks up, the guy’s got a smile playing around his lips. Steve thinks maybe his voice has gotten a little deeper.

“Sure, man, that’s great.” He glances away from Steve and over at the table full of girls.

Steve follows his gaze. The girls are slumped around the table. Steve watches as one of them puts her head down on her arms like she’s going to take a nap. The two others are looking at something on their phones. Steve relaxes a little-- clearly the girls are distracted.

Hot Jogger must agree, because he looks back at Steve. “Sam Wilson, nice to meet you.”

Steve grins. “Pleasure’s all mine, Sam.”

Sam smiles back at him. “Now, about that breakfast,” he says, heading for the door. “I need more than coffee and a muffin after a run like today." 

Steve stands and watches Sam’s ass as he walks away, then he jogs a couple of steps to catch up. “Sure, Sam.” He bumps Sam’s shoulder with his own. “If that’s what you wanna call running.”

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you greet the friend you thought was dead?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that the first timestamp, where Steve meets Sam, was a flash forward. Chronologically, this chapter comes immediately after the end of [Upon the Wild Waves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9273437) and shortly after [By Cold Frozen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10704048).

New York City, May 4, 2012 

Bucky paces in the suite’s living room. There are massive floor-to-ceiling windows next to him and, every 3-4 laps, he pauses and makes himself look out the windows and down at New York. He’s trying to stay calm. It’s not working, hasn’t worked since he saw fucking alien invaders on CNN. It won’t work until he sees for himself that this is _Steve_ , _his_ Steve, his--

Bucky stops, leans against the glass and stares down, watching a yellow cab moving some 80 floors below. He lets his eyes unfocus, lets the strongest image of Steve float up-- skinny little teenage spitfire, eyes flashing, looking up from a book to argue some point. Tries to picture Steve as he’ll look now, swelled up with muscle from the serum. His brain is a mess of incoherent images-- Steve’s jaw jutting out and hands on hips, Bucky looking up to meet blue eyes. Nothing resolves into coherence. Bucky shakes his head-- he’s lived with this mess of memory long enough, that he knows what he has of his past as much a matter of belief as it is a matter of knowing. He still isn’t sure, will never _be_ sure, what is and isn’t truth, what’s real and what’s made up.

He stands there, watching the traffic below, and stretches his senses. He can hear footsteps down the hallway. Tony’s voice is coming towards him, higher-pitched than usual, talking too fast. Bucky huffs a laugh, Tony’s got no poker face at all. He wonders what Steve thinks of all this-- if he’s picking up on Tony’s excitement or just exhausted and ready to crash.

The second voice doesn’t say much. It rumbles, the responses threaded through with a definite air of reticence, or semi-tolerance. Bucky thinks the voice is… it could be familiar, he supposes, but there’s no instant of recognition. The wolf, though, sits up. It feels eager, excited. This whole fucking day, the wolf’s been the driving force. Bucky wishes he could be so certain.

Tony’s still talking when he opens the door and enters the suite. Bucky gives him a quick once-over-- Jarvis told him Tony had nearly died. He zeros in on Tony’s unique heartbeat, reassuring himself that Tony’s here, alive. Instinct has Bucky breathing in deeply, scenting to make sure Tony’s okay. The two deep breaths Bucky takes make him sway, make him throw his right hand out to grab the back of the leather couch, knees threatening to buckle. There’s a smell of dirt and dust and old sweat, and for a minute he’s looking at Steve, standing in the rubble of a burnt-out in house, eyes tired and bright hair matted with dirt and blood. Bucky blinks, double vision, before it clears and he sees only here and now.

“Bucky?” Steve is standing just inside the doorway, his voice tight with shock. It hits places Bucky buried long ago. It’s all he can do to nod.

Then, Steve’s eyes narrow. He turns to face Tony. “What the hell?” he demands, voice like a whip. “Is this a joke?”

Steve takes a step toward Tony, hands clenched into fists. Tony’s eyes widen, and he takes two steps back, hands up. “Cap, hey. No. Look, this is--”

“This is what? Are you fucking kidding me? Bucky is _dead._  Who is this, Stark?”

Steve’s advancing on Tony. Bucky can’t see his face but every tense line in Steve’s body screams murder. Bucky blinks.

“A little help here, old man!” Tony shouts, looking rapidly from Steve to Bucky and then back again..

Steve looms over Tony and the wolf whines in Bucky’s head.

“Steve. _Steve_!” Bucky pulls on the wolf, makes his voice a command.

Steve freezes, arm up. “Bucky?” he asks again, voice gone high. He lets his arm fall back to his side and turns back towards Bucky slowly, eyes wide.

“Yeah.” Bucky makes himself take a few steps closer. “You gotta stop terrorizing Tony, pal.” He walks under Tony’s stupidly overdone chandelier and stands so the light is directly on him. “I promise, it’s me. The only thing Tony’s guilty of is enjoying the surprise too much.”

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice breaks, and Bucky watches his shoulders sag. He’s staring at Bucky, taking him in, and Bucky holds out his arms, inviting Steve to look him up and down, suddenly hyper aware of his stump, peeking out from the short sleeve of his t-shirt.

“Jesus, Buck.” Steve rubs at his eyes. His voice makes Bucky ache, the wolf eager. “I saw you fall.”

Bucky takes a deep breath, tries not to give into the screaming feeling of vertigo in his head. He shrugs. “Turns out I’m pretty hard to kill.”

Steve keeps staring, eyes coming back to Bucky’s left arm. He takes a step toward Bucky, and another. Then he’s moving faster than humans should, fast as a wolf. Bucky’s arms come up before he can think about it, defensive, and he just barely manages not to strike when Steve pulls him into a bone-crushing hug.

Steve’s wrapped around him, scent enveloping him, and Bucky’s frozen. It feels like his brain is on fire and it’s all he can do to keep the flashes of memory at bay, because otherwise they’re going to roll him under and he’s not sure he’ll come back up. His ears are ringing and the wolf is no help, so excited it’s practically wiggling, which is _really fucking weird._  Then Steve shifts his weight, and Bucky’s able to slide his trapped right arm down and around, hug back and-- Well. Slowly, he lets himself relax into Steve, feel the muscular body against his. The way Steve curls into him is familiar, an echo--

“That’s kind of a lot of hugging,” Tony says from behind them.

Steve freezes, and Bucky sighs, straightens to look at Tony over Steve’s shoulder. Tony’s leaning against the wet bar, a glass of scotch in his hand. Bucky can smell the peat.

“Well, honestly,” Tony shrugs, takes a sip. “I figured there’d be more manly slapping of backs.” He waves his hand toward them. “Maybe some kissing? This is kind of boring.”

“Tony,” Steve’s voice is clipped. He steps away from Bucky and he’s cold suddenly, without Steve pressed against him. He can’t tell if Steve is angry at the interruption or the innuendo. “It’s considered polite--”

“Kid,” Bucky cuts Steve off. “This ain’t a private show. You can leave.”

“But it’s my house,” says Tony. He strolls over to one of the chairs and flops down in it, grabs the remote off the coffee table. “I can go wherever I want.” He flicks a button and the giant flatscreen comes on. “Watch whatever I want.”

Steve looks up at the ceiling like he’s asking for patience. “Thanks for the hospitality, Tony.” Steve’s voice is a little hoarse, like he’s trying to keep from yelling. “I think we can take it from here.” Bucky’s not sure how or why, but he just _knows_ that Steve is at the end of his rope.

“Sure, Cap.” Tony mutes the TV and looks up at them. “But you know, I’ve been waiting for this reunion to happen for about the last two days and I kind of died.” He pauses, grimacing and rubbing his chest where the arc reactor glows steadily. “So, I think I get to stay.” Tony settles back in his chair and gestures at the two of them. “Don’t mind me.”

Bucky shakes his head and walks across the room. Slumped in the chair, in the light from the TV, Tony looks terrible. His face is bruised and there’s a cut over his eye that’s closed with butterfly strips. “Did you want a hug, too?”

Tony tips his head back against the chair, looking up. “What I really wanted, old man, was a Boston Creme donut.”

“Kid, next time you come to Boston, I’ll buy you a dozen.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Assuming you manage to avoid a near-death experience between now and then.” He holds out his hand to Tony, who looks at the hand, up at Bucky, and over at Steve. Then he sighs and lets Bucky pull him up into a hug.

“You need anything at all, old man, just call,” he murmurs in Bucky’s ear. “That guy’s an asshole.”

Bucky looks down at Tony, raising his eyebrows. Then he nods, pulls back. “Get the hell out of here and go see Pepper,” he says, and pushes Tony toward the door.

***

He manages to convince Steve, somehow, that they should talk tomorrow. That Steve’s too tired to take everything in now. It’s the truth, but really, Bucky’s head is ringing and he just needs a goddamn minute to let his fucking brain go into overload and dump whatever shit it’s going to dump on him. Steve’s in the shower. Bucky can hear the rush of water, the sounds of it hitting tile, hitting skin. He can smell the fancy soap that Pepper makes sure is stocked in the tower’s guest rooms.

He lays on his side on the long leather couch, hand over his face, trying to let his mind go. It’s hard-- this isn’t his place and, no matter what defenses Tony builds into his homes, Bucky never feels completely safe, completely relaxed. He takes a deep breath, another, the way that Ayumi taught him so many years ago. And then he hears Steve’s rough baritone-- his voice was always too big for a little guy-- as he starts singing in the shower.

That’s when the bits and pieces of memory spin out around him. Listening to Steve sing in the kitchen, at mass, in the school choir. Steve getting the shit kicked outta him, because only pansies sing in the choir, and it just goes from there. Puzzle pieces that don’t fit anywhere, like a thousand haystacks and no fucking hope of finding a needle. Bucky wants to scream. It’s too much, there are too many things to remember, none of it is coherent, and how the fuck is he supposed to keep anyone _safe_. He buries his face in the soft leather of the couch, arm curled over his head. Which, of fucking course, is how Steve finds him.

He’s not sure how long Steve’s been saying his name, but his voice is hoarse and his hand has dug bruises into Bucky’s shoulder. Later, Bucky will honestly be astonished that Steve didn’t call Tony. Grateful, but astonished.

When Bucky finally hears it, feels the shaking of the hand on his shoulder, his first instinct is to attack. So, he does. Comes up hard and fast, thrusts his hand at Steve’s sternum, and puts his weight behind it. Steve, not expecting it, falls back hard, cracking the sandstone coffee table. Bucky’s on his feet, growling, before instinct takes a back seat to the scent of Steve and blood.

“Fuck.” Bucky stares down at Steve, who’s looking up at him from the floor, mouth open like a landed fish. “Steve, I’m sorry, you okay?” He reaches down to help Steve up.

“Bucky, what the hell?” Steve takes his hand, his eyes wide. He lets Bucky pull him up, and then doesn’t let go.

“You startled me.” Bucky stands there, hand caught in Steve’s stupidly big one. He tries to slow his heartbeat, calm the wolf.

“Not the hit,” Steve says, squeezing Bucky’s hand and rolling his shoulders. Steve will be bruised all to hell tomorrow. Bucky can smell blood hot under skin. “I thought you were having a nightmare. Or some kind of fit. You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just--” Shit. Bucky’s brain feels raw. He looks up to where Steve’s staring at him. “There’s a lot that happened, since-- since the last time we saw each other.” Steve’s eyes close and there’s a twitch of something on his face. Bucky tries to remember how weird this has to be from the other side. Fuck. “I’ll tell you about it, but I’m wiped, pal. Really, let’s talk in the morning.”

Steve’s eyes fly open and he looks like he’s going to argue. Then he looks Bucky up and down, and Bucky wonders what’s on his face for Steve to look like that-- biting his lip, eyes soft. “Yeah, okay, Buck. We can talk in the morning.”

* * *

New York City, May 5, 2012

The guest suite has a kitchen and Bucky's not surprised to find it fully stocked. He pulls eggs, bread, and bacon out of the medium-sized refrigerator. He nods at the toaster and asks Steve, “think you can handle that?”

“Buck,” Steve looks affronted. “I know how some things work now.”

Bucky laughs, then tosses Steve the loaf of bread. “I been meaning to ask-- how long did SHIELD keep your return under wraps?”

Frowning, Steve catches the bread easily. “They told me SHIELD was a secret.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky starts cracking eggs into a bowl. “I’m 95 years old. I know a lot of secrets.” He can feel Steve’s eyes on him, but he goes ahead and lets the butter melt in the pan, starts scrambling the eggs.

“Well, I woke up on April 17. So, a few weeks? ” Steve turns away from the toaster and leans against the counter with his arms crossed. Bucky can feel Steve watching. “SHIELD set up a room to look like a hospital in the 40s.”

“Really?” Bucky looks over. “That seems…” He shrugs. “Well, I guess they’re in the business of secrets and lies.” He opens the package of bacon and starts laying strips into a second pan. “I’m thinking you twigged pretty quick that it wasn’t the real deal.”

“Yeah, they were stupid enough to play a Dodgers game from ‘43-- one I went to.” Steve shakes his head. “I figured they were Nazis.”

Bucky freezes, just for a second, then he concentrates, very carefully, on turning over three slices of bacon.

***

Sitting on barstools, eating breakfast on Tony’s ridiculous white marble countertop, Bucky tells Steve what he knows. He does his best to stay detached, to play the sergeant providing an after action report. “When I fell, the Russians found me,” he starts, and Steve looks hopeful. Sometimes Bucky forgets that the Russians had been allies during the war. He takes a sip of his coffee, dreading what he has to say next. “It turns out, these Russians were also Hydra.”

Steve goes pale, and Bucky tenses. The wolf whines in the back of his head, already unhappy. “You okay?”

Steve takes a sip of water, eyes never leaving Bucky. “Yeah, I’m okay.” He waves. “Go on.”

Bucky sighs, nods. In a few sentences, he lays it out. Hydra. Killing people. His captivity and escape. His time in Portland with the Rose City Pack. The move to Boston. He keeps it efficient.

The entire time, Steve’s hand stays curled loosely around his glass, but he doesn’t drink and he doesn’t say anything. The scent of guilt coming off of him gets stronger as Bucky talks.

When Bucky pauses to eat a bite of egg, take another sip of coffee, Steve looks down at his plate and blinks, like he forgot it was there. Hesitantly, he moves his fork around the plate and takes a mouthful of eggs. Then he starts shoveling in food, like he can’t eat it fast enough. Bucky hides a smile behind his mug.

When his plate is cleared, though, Steve looks up. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Yes, but we aren’t...” Bucky sets his mug down, runs his hand through his hair. “Look. I got out in ’68. However Hydra got to Russia--” Bucky shakes his head, “They didn’t stay there.”

Steve’s mouth flattens. “Hydra’s here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Bucky toys with his fork, flipping it between his fingers. Then he looks up, straight into Steve’s eyes. “And, it’s in SHIELD.”

***

Tony wanders in not long after and takes a seat at the table. He looks at the hole in his drywall for a minute, but then shakes his head. “I don’t wanna know.” He swipes a piece of toast off Bucky’s plate, making Steve stare at him.

“Ignore him,” Bucky tells Steve, rolling his eyes. “Tony never learned table manners.”

Tony starts to object, mouth full. “I have very good table manners, I can--“ and spits crumbs everywhere.

Bucky sighs. “You can make more toast, is what you can do.”

Tony looks over at the half-loaf of bread left on the counter. “So, now I have two bottomless pits.” Then he sighs, stands, and starts making more toast.

Steve’s watching them, eyes narrowed over his coffee cup. Seeming to make up his mind about something, he puts the mug down on the table. “So, when I was with them, SHIELD gave me a crash course on recent history.”

Tony turns and leans against the counter. “Well, this ought to be good,” he says, then goes over to play with the fancy espresso machine.

“Among other things,” continues Steve, “they mentioned a war with the Fae. “I, um. I saw the video.”

Tony turns back to him, holding a tiny espresso cup. “Which one? There’s like six different angles-- the Fae _really_ wanted that video to get out.”

Steve shrugs. “I’ve only seen the one. But I saw the beheading, heard the whole speech.”

“Yes,” Bucky says shortly. “The jury had no interest in convicting a human who killed monsters. The Fae were… displeased.” He stands up abruptly, begins pacing. In his mind, the wolf remembers their murdered pack member, mourns for him. In the room, he can smell Tony’s worry, and, underneath, the cuts on Steve’s hand.

“So the Fae declared themselves a sovereign nation,” Steve’s voice is tight and the banked sulfur scent is coming back. “They’re hostile to the US.”

“Yeah, and they retreated to their reservations. Which no one can gain access to,” adds Tony. “A couple different agencies tried using SI tech to get a look, but our drones are stumped. They either just fall out of the sky, dead, or they end up over the Australian desert. We’ve had to stop supplying them, just to avoid being banned by Australia.”

Bucky turns back. The wolf knows this scent, reminds him that an angry Steve is not... Not what, he wonders. He runs up against a wall of blankness, no memories to guide him.

He watches as Steve closes his eyes for a minute, shakes his head, then opens them again. “Okay, so we’re fighting aliens, the Fae, and…” he glances at Tony, then Bucky. “He know?”

Bucky nods before Tony can say anything.

“And, God damn Hydra’s hiding in SHIELD.” Steve’s voice is vicious. “Who else are we at war with?”

Tony glances back and forth between the two of them, then asks brightly, “Did anyone tell you about radical Islamic terrorists from the Middle East?”

* * *

Boston, MA, May 5, 2012

Alison’s standing on the porch when Bucky pulls his truck into his driveway, arms crossed, face set in a frown. She’s got her hair scraped back in a ponytail, which means she probably hasn’t slept. Looks like she’s wearing her oldest jeans and, Bucky squints, her Pussy Riot t-shirt.

“Shit.” Bucky stares through the windshield, then drops his head to the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“That your girl?” Steve looks at her, then over at Bucky, grin starting. “She looks pretty burnt up, pal.” He looks out the window again, frowning. “Interesting hair.”

Bucky sighs as he turns off the truck and hops down. He looks over his shoulder and tells Steve, “You might want to stay out of the blast radius.”

She meets him in the middle of the yard, head cocked as she scents him. “Are you okay? You smell okay.”

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m fine. Look, Alison--”

She hits him with a jawbreaker of a left hook, cutting off anything Bucky could possibly say. When the punch connects he’s not braced for it. It’s all he can do to stay standing.

“You _son of a bitch_ !” She lets loose with a right kick that he barely manages to dodge. “We were all worried about you! Isaac’s _furious_. You fucking take off without a word? Just leave some note at the gym?” She holds up her cellphone and shakes it at him. “It’s the digital age, you asshole. You couldn’t, I don’t know, send a fucking text?”

“Alison--” he tries, but she just keeps going.

“The kids are terrified!” She spits at him. “They fucking count on you!”

Shit, Bucky winces. He’d canceled the Friday night class in his note, but beyond that? Fuck, he’d barely even thought about the kids once he started driving to New York.

Alison’s still yelling, fists up like she’s going to deck him again if she gets the chance. “You _disappeared_ in the middle of an _alien attack_!” He winces. Quieter, she says, “James, Maelle called me sobbing when she couldn’t reach you. You know how she gets.”

“Yeah, I know.” Bucky closes his eyes, makes himself take a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I can explain, okay?” He waves at the house. “Let me open the door, take our drama off the street.”

She looks him up and down again, then glances over to where Steve’s leaning against the truck, arms crossed, and freezes. “Who the hell is that?”

Bucky ignores the question, digs in his pocket for his keys as he heads up to the porch.

“James,” she says, grabbing his arm when he tries to walk past her, and he has to consciously keep from striking out. “Who _is_ that?”

Bucky glances back at Steve, then leans in to Alison, puts his forehead against hers. “Come inside, okay? I’ll tell, but inside.”

She looks up at him, then pulls back to squint at Steve, looking him over. “You went to New York, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, Ali.” Bucky puts a little command into his next words. “Come. _Inside_.”

She glares at him, but she heads up the porch stairs. Bucky looks over at Steve. “Come on, pal, we’re finished giving the neighbors a show.”

Steve looks a little wary, but he heads towards the porch, murmuring, “Yeah, your girl’s a firecracker, Buck.”

Bucky leads them all into the living room, the room bright in the mid-afternoon sun. “Have a seat,” he offers, waving them both toward chairs. Of course, neither of them take a chair. Alison stays standing, hands on her hips, and Steve won’t sit either, hands tucked awkwardly in his pockets, shoulders hunched. Bucky runs his hand down his face, wincing at the bruise coming up on his jaw. He decides to just spit it out.

“Alison, meet Steve Rogers.” She nods, like she’d already guessed. “Rumors of his death have been greatly exaggerated.”

“So I see,” she says, and then gives Steve a _very_ obvious onceover. Then she turns back to him, smirking “I also see the history books weren’t wrong on one count. You did _always_ like ‘em pretty.”

Bucky winces. “That’s not…” He looks over at Steve. “Can you just, give us a minute? There’s ice in the freezer. Grab me some?”

Steve looks back and forth between Bucky and then Alison, a frown forming on his face. He doesn’t say anything though, just nods and heads for the kitchen.

Bucky turns back too Alison. “Look, I’m sorry. I just--” He runs his fingers through his hair,  meets Alison’s gaze again. “I’m sorry. Everything kind of flew out of my head.”

She’s watching him closely. Bucky hates it. She knows all of his tells. “Yeah. Couldn’t wait, huh?”

“Alison,” Bucky frowns, glancing towards the kitchen. “I don’t think--”

Steve comes back in then, carrying a towel full of ice, and thrusts it at Bucky. “So,” he looks from Alison to Bucky, “kids?”

Alison sinks gracefully into a chair and arches an eyebrow. Then, voice syrupy sweet, “Yeah, James, what about the kids?”

***

Bucky’s grabbing two Cokes from the fridge when the landline rings, loud and shrill. He drops the cans on the counter and turns to grab the phone, answering it without thinking. “Hello?”

“Ah, James.” Bran’s voice is calm, and he says, “Just one moment please.”

Bucky pulls the phone away from his ear and stares at it, betrayed. Steve, leaning in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, asks, “Who’s that?”

Bran is back before he can answer. “James?”

“Yes, Bran,” Bucky answers. He grabs the handset and waves for Steve to go into the dining room. Bucky follows behind him. “I’m--”

But Bran says, “Isaac?”

Bucky closes his eyes. Fuck.

“Yes, Bran.” Isaac’s voice has a growl to it and Bucky opens his eyes quickly. Steve’s standing by the table, staring at him. There’s dim light filtering in from the dining room windows and it makes Steve’s skin look grey. For a moment, Bucky just stares back. Then he shakes himself and waves the phone towards the table. Steve doesn’t move, just stares back. Isaac coughs, meaningfully, over the phone line. At that, Bucky rolls his eyes, mouths, ‘sit down,’ and walks past Steve to hit the light switch on.

Bran starts, “James--”

“I’m not alone, Bran,” Bucky cuts him off. He steps back to the table and places the handset on it.

There's a brief pause, and then Charles says, “Why don’t you introduce us to your friend, James?”

Steve’s still standing there. He just raises his eyebrows and watches as Bucky takes a seat. Bucky kicks out another chair, motioning, again, for Steve to sit down.

“Bran, Isaac, Charles, I’d like you to meet my friend, Steve Rogers.” Bucky runs his hand through his hair, then says, “You may know him better as Captain America.”

“Are you f--” Isaac’s voice cuts off, Bucky figures he stabbed the mute button. Bran is not a fan of swearing.

Steve rolls his eyes at Bucky as he says, “Hi, everyone. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Hello, Captain,” Charles sounds vaguely amused. “James, I assume this is why you couldn’t be reached the last two days.”

Bucky sighs, “Yeah.”

“We will be _discussing_ that, Phelan.” Isaac growls at him.

“Be that as it may,” Bran breaks in, voice impatient. “We have some important issues to discuss.”

“Bucky’s been filling me in.” Steve’s face flushes and then he looks away. “I'll do anything to help take down Hydra.”

“Hydra? Bu--” Isaac’s voice chokes off-- the mute button again-- and Bucky covers his face. His next discussion with his Alpha is going to be _miserable_.

“James,” Bran continues, “my son tells me that the two of you have located several potential Hydra bases. He has requested my approval for you both to investigate.”

Steve turns back to him and mouths ‘Bases?’ Bucky waves him off, annoyed.

“Yes, there’s one in Maine that looks promising.” Bucky wrinkles his nose. “But Charles doesn't want me to go on my own.”

“Charles is right,” Bran says. “It would be extremely foolish and risky.”

“Foolish I get,” Isaac cuts in. “Especially since my understanding is that Captain America here stopped Hydra in 1945.” His voice rumbles over the line. “Why the hell is it _risky_?”

Bucky closes his eyes and thinks, ‘Fuck.’

“James?” In one word, Bran manages to makes him feel like a kid caught with his hand in the candy jar. He should have just told Isaac who he was years ago. _Shit_.

Bucky sighs. “Hydra didn’t end when Steve crashed that f-- damned plane, Isaac.” He glares at at Steve, who has the grace to blush and look back out the windows again. “They went multinational before the war ended and expanded well beyond Germany. I know,” Bucky swallows. “I know because I was their prisoner for a while.” He can see it, the exact second when Steve’s face goes blotchy with unhappiness. Bucky sighs. “Charles and I and some… interested parties… have been tracking them since the 1980s.”

There’s a conspicuous pause over the phone line. “And why, exactly, haven’t I heard about _any_ of this before?” Isaac’s voice is tight. Bran and Charles are silent.

“Uh--”

“You know what, no,” Isaac cuts him off. “ After this call is over, you will come _directly_ to my house and we will have a _discussion_. We are going to _have words_ , got it?”

“Yes boss,” Bucky says, immediately.

Steve opens his mouth, probably to protest Isaac’s words or tone, and Bucky points a finger at him, hissing, “Shut it, Steve.” And then covers his face, wincing when he realizes he hadn’t muted the phone. God damn it.

Bran sounds a little amused when he comes back on. “James, you and Charles will investigate these bases. Start with the ones you can drive to-- you are too recognizable to go through airport security.”

Bucky nods. “Okay.”

“I'll come too,” Steve jumps in, eyes bright.

Charles cuts him off. “I don't think that's a good idea, Captain.”

“What? Why?” Steve leans forward in his chair, like he's about to pick a fight with the phone.

“James is recognizable if you know what you're looking for, especially given his left arm. But he knows how to fade into the background. With an unknown companion, we can likely fool anyone who's guarding these bases, at least once or twice.” Charles pauses, then says almost gently. “You and James together, though, will raise the alarm almost immediately. The mythos around you… It is hard to live in modern America without seeing the two of you. Someone will recognize the two of you together.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue, and Bucky kicks him in the shin. When Steve turns to glare at him, Bucky says, “Look, If they recapture me, it would be bad. Real bad.” He swallows hard. “But it they get both of us? Manage to turn you?” Bucky shakes his head. “Infinitely worse.”

Steve just keeps watching him, and something on his face makes Bucky want to turn away. He looks down at the phone, grateful when the silence is broken by Isaac.

“What’s the risk to my pack?” Isaac asks. “If Phelan is worried about getting, what, captured? Then what are the chances they come after the rest of us?”

Bran hums. “I am not sure,” he says, finally. “It would take them time to turn their attention away from James, I think, and we aren’t certain what their overall interest is in werewolves.” When Isaac makes a noise of protest, Bran continues. “From what James has said, if Hydra has the opportunity, they will take him back, because they see him as their weapon. Right, James?”

Bucky closes his eyes a minute, before he forces himself to look up at Steve and say, “Yes. I’m their…” He shakes his head. “Yes.”

Steve looks… Bucky can’t interpret the look on his face. Beyond _upset_.

Bran coughs. “Whether they have moved on to the idea of having an army of werewolves, is unknown.” Bucky smirks at that. Bran is splitting hairs. They know Hydra wants an army of _something_. But, it’s true that they aren’t sure an army of _what_.

“I would say that there is a low-to-moderate risk to the pack,” Bran continues. “The greatest risk, to my mind, is if James’ incursions onto Hydra’s property become known and he is tracked back to Boston-- Hydra might then become aware of those pack members who are not yet known to the federal government.”

Isaac snorts. “Well, they know a good few of us, what with that whole serial murder investigation.” Bucky can hear him moving, the  furniture creaks. “I know Charles tried to keep the pack out of it, and I appreciate it, but the only ones I’m definitely sure aren’t on any radar, _yet_ , are the kids.”

“I leave it up to you,” Bran says, startling Bucky out of his thoughts. He looks up quickly, and Steve is still frowning at him. “If you think that there’s too great a risk, James would be welcome to join us here in Montana.”

Isaac doesn’t answer, and Bucky isn’t surprised. He may be a threat, but the kids also need him. There’s not really a good answer to that offer.

“James, I’ll give you a call later to plan our trip,” Charles says.

Before Bucky can say anything else, Isaac growls. “I’ll be seeing you shortly, Phelan.”

Bucky resists the urge to sigh. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll be there directly.”

After they hang up, Bucky is left sitting in his dining room across from Steve. Who’s been oddly silent, now that Bucky thinks about it, for the remainder of the call.

“I really do have to go,” Bucky tells him now, standing up. “You mind amusing yourself for a while?”

Steve leans back, balancing the chair on two legs for a minute, like he’s a teenager. “You know you don’t have to amuse me, Buck. Right?”

Bucky can’t resist a quick once over. Before he can even think about it, he’s grinning. “Could amuse myself with you all day.” Then he catches himself, feels a ominous twist in his stomach. He turns away. “Anyway, you know where everything is, help yourself to anything you want.”

He walks out the door, moving fast. As he closes I behind him, he hears the legs of the chair come to rest on the floor, and, faintly, “Anything, Buck? You sure about that?”

Bucky stops, blinks. Bucky’s memories of Steve’s _amusements_ mostly consist of him sketching on whatever scrap of paper he can find, the two of them burning off tension during at least one full moon, and Steve’s general, ongoing, epic hard-on for Peggy Carter. Has anyone told Steve about Peggy? Should Bucky? He feels a sudden, deep desire to make Tony do it. Or Pepper. _Fuck._

* * *

Boston, MA, May 5, 2012

It’s late when Bucky lets himself back in the house-- the street outside is dark and the house is quiet. He drops his keys on the buffet and leans against the wall separating the dining room from the living room. Steve’s sitting in one of the easy chairs, he looks up from the book he’s reading, hand coming up automatically to smooth his hair out of his eyes. There’s a smile on his face that quickly turns to worry.

“Sorry that took a while,” Bucky offers. “I had to call all the kids, too.”

Steve puts down the book and stands. “Bucky, who the hell are these kids you keep talking about?”

“Oh, uh, we have-- my pack has some teenagers.” Bucky sighs, starts to lean against the wall, then stands back up straight immediately. “There was-- well. They were turned last year.”

“Yeah?” Steve’s coming closer now, frowning as he gets a good look at Bucky’s face. “Is that. Unusual?”

“Yeah.” Bucky tells him, then, hoping to avoid the inevitable, “What’s that you’re reading?”

Steve rolls his eyes a little at the obvious dodge, but says, “ _The Tain._ I thought it was worth reminding myself what the Fae can do, given half a chance.” He raises his eyebrows, waves his hand up and down, taking in Bucky’s fat lip, his black eyes. “That what Isaac means by a ‘discussion?’”

“We’re werewolves, Steve. We’ve got that rough justice thing going on.” Bucky grimaces, feels the pull on his barely-healed split lip. “And, I knowingly kept secrets that affect the pack.”

“That all?” Steve sets the book down on the side table before making his way over to Bucky. “He busted your pretty face all to shit-- sure that’s not personal?”

“Aww,” Bucky can’t help himself, "you think I’m pretty?”

Steve rolls his eyes, muttering, “Everyone thinks you’re pretty.” Steve stops in front of him now, left hand catching Bucky’s chin and turning his face up to the light. “He sure did a number on you, Buck-- usually you’re faster than this.” Steve’s hand brushes gently over Bucky’s swollen cheekbone. “You forget to duck?”

Steve’s fingers are warm on his jaw, and Bucky forces himself to take a step back. He doesn’t want to… he’s not sure what. Bucky shakes his head. “Isaac is my alpha and I misled him.” He sighs, runs his fingers through his hair, winces at the stabbing pain in his right side from raising his arm.

“So you let him get in a few licks?” Steve crosses his arm and levels him with an unimpressed stare. “The hell? Bucky, I’ve never known you to take a beating like you deserve it. I can tell he messed up your ribs, too.”

“My ribs, my face.” Bucky starts to shrug, winces again. “It’ll heal. I’ll be moving slow for a couple of days, but my face will be fine by the time I have to be at work tomorrow.”

Steve narrows his eyes. “He ever done anything like this before? It doesn’t matter that you’ll heal.”

Bucky growls a little. “I don’t need an intervention, pal.” Steve looks confused, and Bucky waves his hand. “Look, Isaac and I usually get along fine-- only time before this we’ve ever gone a few rounds was in the ring.” He wraps his arm around his middle, suddenly the ribs feel like they’re stabbing him. “This is different-- I’m third in this pack and I could have compromised the others’ safety. He had every right to be pissed.”

“Uh huh.” Steve looks judgmental as hell, but he only says mildly, “if you say so. You want me to wrap those ribs for you?”

Bucky watches him, frustrated, unsure how to convey what this all means to someone not pack. Finally, he just nods. “Sure. First aid kit’s in the bathroom, and I need to clean up anyway.”

***

Twenty minutes later, Bucky admits to himself that Alison is right and that he is an idiot. Okay, sure, without Steve there he probably wouldn’t have wrapped his ribs and would have had to listen to them scrape against one another all night. But, now he’s standing shirtless in the bathroom, pressed in between the shower and the sink vanity, trying very hard to ignore the feeling of warm fingers on his skin. Fuck, there’s a whole lot of touching when someone wraps your ribs, and Bucky is a God damned idiot. He was already on edge from the full moon tomorrow; now he’s half crawling out of his skin from Steve’s hands on his body.

“This isn’t too tight, right?” Steve looks up at him from where he’s sitting on the toilet, winding the bandage around Bucky’s ribs.

“No,” Bucky says, gritting his teeth. “I’m fine, just get on with it.”

Steve’s fingers are warm, brushing against Bucky’s sides. When he starts talking, Bucky grabs at the distraction.

“So, Alison?”

Bucky grunts as the bandage makes another loop, then asks, “What about her?”

Steve pauses for a moment, then keeps going. “You two are close, I guess?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods, then has to stop, head going dizzy. “She was the first one I really clicked with in the pack, when I moved to Boston.”

Steve leans forward to move the bandage from hand to hand behind Bucky’s back. “So Alison’s not--”

It takes a minute-- Bucky’s not operating at full capacity-- then he smirks down at Steve. “Not what?”

“You always used to have a girl,” Steve shrugs. “Sometimes more than one.” Steve’s face goes red, and Bucky wonders about that. Steve tests the wrap for a minute, fingers firm on Bucky’s skin, then keeps going. “So, she’s not your girl?”

“Nope.” Bucky leans back a bit against the sink, groans as he shifts. “I mean, we sleep together sometimes. Just blow off some steam.” He smiles a little, feels a pull on his barely healed split lip, “but she’s not my girlfriend. She’s got a girlfriend of her own.”

“Uh-- oh.” Steve’s bright red now, and Bucky wonders what he’s thinking. Steve was never exactly religious, but he did just wake up from 1945. Then Steve looks up, right into Bucky’s eyes, asks, “and you don’t have a guy?”

Bucky cocks his head. “Well, look at you, being all modern.” He starts to shake his head, stops quick. “I mean, it’s 2012. I go out. I’m not going to tell you I don’t look around.”

“So you--” Steve sways forward a little, then turns back to the first aid kit. “You’re single, I guess?”

Bucky manages to stop himself from nodding. “Yep. Too busy.”

Steve looks up and Bucky wonders what his face looks like. He’s trying to stay calm, but the wolf is whining a bit, in the back of his mind. Steve smells good, the scent stirring up memories, and he freezes a minute, trying to catch the image.

“Bucky?”

He reaches behind himself, grips the sink for balance for a minute, and Steve shifts closer. “You getting dizzy? How hard did he hit your head?”

Bucky manages to shake his head this time. He takes a deep breath, trying to filter out Steve, concentrating on the scent of his shaving cream. When he’s steady enough to look over, Steve’s frowning, clearly worried. “Sorry, sorry. Just--”

He stops, and Steve gently touches his side, hand closing carefully around the skin below Bucky’s ribs, above his hip. “Yeah?”

“Did you have to do this before?” Bucky gestures to his chest. “Wrap my ribs?”

Steve’s smile is wry and he nods. “Yeah, a couple of times. Once, when we were just kids-- you didn’t want your ma to know you’d been hurt.”

Bucky stares a minute, thinking about that. About trying to hide something from his mother. “She find out?”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, I wrapped ‘em too loose and you barely managed to get out of bed the next day. We both got a tongue-lashing.”

Bucky cocks his head, tries to concentrate but, “Don’t remember that.”

When he looks back down, Steve’s fiddling with the bandages. “I guess it was a long time ago, for you.”

They’re quiet as Steve finishes wrapping him up, tying off the ends neatly as Bucky says goodnight. “Sleep well, Steve.”

Steve looks down, then up from under his eyelashes. “You too, Buck. You too. 

* * *

Boston, MA, May 9, 2012

They’re just walking into the house after a morning at the gym when Bucky’s cell phone rings. He picks it up while Steve heads to the kitchen to get them water.

“Hi, Charles,” he says.

“James.”

The way Charles says his name makes Bucky wary. “What’s wrong? Has there been movement at one of the bases?”

Charles, as always, gets straight to the point. “As of this morning there are three separate blog posts and a large number of tweets all talking about a one-armed man who helped with rescue efforts in New York.” He pauses, for a moment, then continues. “Several of the tweets state that the man’s eyes were glowing.”  
  
“Shit,” Bucky winces, closing his eyes.

There’s a roaring in his ears. Bucky sits in a dining room chair quickly, jarring his mostly-healed ribs. Steve’s hand lands on the back of his neck and he hears Steve’s voice saying, “Breathe.”

Steve carefully pulls Bucky’s phone from his hand, setting it on the table, and Bucky takes slow, deep breaths. It clears his head enough to catch Charles saying, “Good morning, Captain.”

“Hi, Charles,” says Steve, pushing the glass of water into Bucky’s hand. He glares until Bucky takes a sip. “Why is this a problem? If werewolves are out, it’s just a good Samaritan…”

“It’s rare for werewolves to lose a limb,” Charles starts, “and none of those who have are out to the public.”

“When I escaped Hydra,” Bucky glances up at Steve, then sighs and takes another sip of water. “I left behind the metal arm they gave me. Zola might be dead, but I’m pretty sure a few people still know about Hydra’s werewolf assassin.”

Steve leans against the counter, frowning. He opens his mouth, but Charles cuts in smoothly, “Captain, James has stayed under the radar for a long time, but this story is unusual. It’s possible it will be picked up by media outlets. It’s not clear how far SHIELD goes to monitor social media. I’m doing my best to prevent it from going anywhere, but--”

“--but I need to lay low,” Bucky growls. “Fuck.”

“I take it this is going to be a problem for your road trip?” Steve takes a sip from his own glass, watching Bucky. “I mean, if they’re already looking for you and you show up on their property…”

“It does increase the risk--” Charles begins.

Bucky cuts that shit right off. “If it does get out, they’ll be looking in New York first.” He puts down the glass with a thunk and stares down at the phone, like he can see Charles through the plastic. “If we go soon, while SHIELD’s still busy dealing with the fallout of an alien invasion, they won’t find anything at all.”

Charles hums. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

Bucky tenses, ready to keep arguing. Then Steve speaks up. “Bucky, you’ve barely got done healing!”

Bucky scowls back. “It’s been a few days, I’m fine. I was fine after the full moon.”

“I take it your discussion with Isaac went well?” Charles sounds amused. Steve turns and stares at the phone for a moment, before rolling his eyes and mouthing ‘werewolves.’

Bucky winces. “He wasn’t happy.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “He won’t be happy with this, either, but--”

“--but he won’t ignore a request from my father, and he was on the phone with us,” Charles finishes, voice dry. “All right, let me make arrangements. How soon can you leave?”

Bucky leans back in his chair, staring at the wall. “I need a week. I have to reassure my staff I'm not nuts and it'll be easier to arrange coverage a week out.” He taps the table, tries to be optimistic. “There might be less security at the base during the week, too.”

“All right. I’ll track the story and let you know what happens,” Charles says, before hanging up.

Steve stands up and walks into the kitchen. The line of his back is taut and Bucky wonders if they fought this much when they were kids. Suddenly, there’s a plate in front of him, sandwich overfull and uneven. Steve sits across from him with his own sandwich. Bucky looks over at him and then down at the sandwich.

Steve’s mouth is full. He swallows, then waves a hand at Bucky’s plate. “Eat, Barnes.”

Bucky looks down at his sandwich, takes a bite. Pretends he doesn’t hear Steve murmur under his breath, “At least you’ll let me feed you.”

It’s a good sandwich.

* * *

Boston, MA, May 10, 2012

They’re sitting at the dining room table after dinner when Bucky’s phone blares, “Back in black! I hit the sack!” startling them both. Bucky narrowly avoids crushing the thing when he swipes to answer it. He puts Tony on speaker phone.

“The band’s getting back together!” Tony shouts over the grind of metal on metal, sounds Bucky recognizes as coming from his workshop. “We’re making sure Thor takes his genocidal baby brother home in irons!”

Before either of them can answer, Tony adds, “And, Fury’s been asking where the good Captain went after I smuggled him out of the Tower.”

Steve rolls his eyes and Bucky has to resist the urge to laugh. “I think smuggling is overstating it, Tony.”

“Were you or were you not both crouching down in the back of a blacked out car?” asks Tony. “Hmmm?”

“So,” Bucky cuts in, before they can get going. “You think Steve needs to head back to New York for this?”

“Yes,” says Tony bluntly. “By Saturday. Or it’ll lead to a _lot_ more questions than I assume you want to deal with.”

“I’ve got to lay low,” Bucky sighs, standing up. He holds out his hand for Steve’s plate and, when Steve hands it to him, places it on top of his own. “Some idiot caught some pictures of me helping out during the attack. Now there’s stuff about ‘the amputee werewolf who saved lives!’ all over the fucking internet.”

“I should go,” Steve says, looking torn. “Otherwise, they might come looking for me.” Bucky studies him as he piles the utensils on the plates, then picks them up with his right hand.

“They probably already are,” says Tony. “There were some pointed questions the other day about me ‘misplacing’ a national treasure.”

Bucky carries the plates into the kitchen and over to the sink, listening to Steve swear. When he comes back around the corner, he leans against the wall between kitchen and dining room.

Steve’s looking at up at him. “I should probably head back to New York, then. If they’re that anxious to find me after only a week away…”

Steve smells eager when he says it, leaning forward in his chair toward the phone. Bucky crosses his right arm over his chest, grips his stump. “You can just come back here after they debrief you.” Then he considers-- SHIELD may not be willing to let Steve go quite that easily. “Or, if they get pushy, just stay with them and I'll figure out some way to get you out.”

“Good, great,” Tony cuts in. “Obviously you can stay at the Tower. Now, there’s another thing.”

Bucky’s still watching Steve, but he shakes his head in response. “There’s always another thing with you, kid.”

“Jarvis and I’ve been going through the intel we got from SHIELD when we were up on the helicarrier.” Tony grunts and there’s more banging in the background. “Unfortunately, Loki’s merry men attacked before I got everything, and the hard reboot kicked Jarvis out of SHIELD’s servers.” Tony sounds annoyed. “But, from what we can tell, they’ve got something going called phase 3.”

“Phase 3,” Bucky says, frowning. He looks over at Steve. “What are phases 1 and 2?”

Steve’s gone tense enough to practically vibrate, muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. “Phase 2 was SHIELD using the cube to build Hydra weapons. I told Fury--”

“Hydra weapons?” Bucky squints at Steve. “I don’t remember Hydra being too picky about what they used.” Guns, knives, saws, batons, electricity-- he has snatches of memory from each, none of them pleasant. “What do you mean?”

“You don’t…” Steve stares up at him, mouth dropping. “Don’t you remember the laser weapons Hydra had at the Front? The people who got hit disintegrated.” He sketches an arc in the air in front of him. “It was like something out of a comic book, only much, much worse.”

Bucky closes his eyes, trying to catch the edge of a memory. “Did they… was there a whining noise?”

Steve looks confused. “Yeah. They had a really distinct sound.”

“Look,” Tony breaks in. “As pleasant as this walk down memory lane sounds, I still have no idea what phase 3 is. But,” he stretches out the pause, sounding pleased with himself. “I’m already working on how to get back into SHIELD’s servers.”

Bucky tries to ignore Steve’s confusion. He walks back to the table, picks up his glass. “How soon?”

“Two, three days. A week tops,” says Tony.

“All right,” Bucky tucks the glass into his left armpit, picks up Steve’s. “Get as much as you can.”

“Of course,” Tony says, sounding faintly offended. “When haven’t I delivered what I promised?”

“You want the list by date or alphabetical?” Bucky snorts as he turns away, walking the glasses to the kitchen counter.

“Rude,” says Tony, but he already sounds distracted, like he’s got three systems running in the background. Probably, Bucky thinks, turning back to the table again, he does. “I’m a good person, though, so I’ll help you anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky comes back into the room, rolling his eyes. He’s about to turn off the phone when Tony shouts, “Hey!”

“What?” Bucky taps at the table, wanting to end the call.

“Send Steve with a dozen donuts. The good ones.”

Steve looks at the phone in disbelief. “Really, Tony?”

Bucky just shakes his head. “No data, no donuts,” and hits the end button.

Steve pushes back from the table and stands up, leaning against the wall and looking out the window. He stares at the porch, past it to where Bucky’s ragged front lawn needs cutting.

Bucky stands by the table, hand closing on the back of a chair. He takes in the set of Steve’s shoulders. “You want to tell me why you’re so upset?”

Steve turns and looks at him across the table. Steve looks at Bucky’s left arm for a second, before looking back at Bucky’s face. Bucky feels his face growing hot.

“You aren’t…” He trails off. “You can’t just give me bits and pieces. What did they _do_ to you?”  Listening to his voice, Bucky has another flash of a smaller, younger Steve, this time on the edge of angry, frustrated tears.

Bucky tightens his fist and the chair creaks. He forces himself to let go, to take a deep breath, let it out. Does it again. “Look, I don’t feel like rehashing this. It isn’t…” He shakes his head. “It isn’t something I can just spend a lot of time detailing. They fucked with my head, okay?” He sighs. “I told you they wanted a weapon. They used whatever they could to make me into one. I was a very good weapon.”

“Is that why you’re forgetting things? Why you’re asking me about stuff you should _know_?” Steve’s voice is rough. “I feel like I don’t--"

“Fuck you,” Bucky growls. “I didn’t realize there was a test, _pal_.” He’s not sure why he’s so angry, but he is. Or, why he cares. But he does. Isaac knows his memory is fucked up. Alison knows. The kids know… So, now maybe Steve knows too.

“It’s not a test,” Steve holds out his hands, palms up. “I'm just _worried_. You’ve barely told me anything about what happened.” He takes a step forward, bumping into one of the chairs. “You used to dream about those weapons, I saw y-- you told me you had nightmares about them.”

Bucky feels cold. The wolf whines in the back of his mind. Steve’s looking at him like he doesn’t know him. Which is fucked up, because even when Bucky didn’t remember Steve he _knew_ him. Bucky half-remembers a dream he had long ago. In it, he was a ghost walking the halls of the Portland pack house. When Ayumi and Min saw him, they didn’t recognize him.

“Steve,” Bucky says. When he says it, his voice isn’t exactly steady. “I told you, they fucked with my head… a lot.” He stops, takes a breath. “I have problems sometimes, remembering. I don’t know what they did, but a lot of my memories--” He shrugs. “They’re either messed up or they’re gone altogether. Stuff during the war, in particular--” He sighs. “I used to be able to check with Gabe, but he’s been gone now for a while.” The wolf whines, and he shakes his head. “I don’t always remember so good.” He looks up at Steve steadily. “It is what it is.”

A spasm crosses over Steve’s face.  “God, Bucky. How do they even do that to a werewolf?”

“It doesn’t matter, Steve,” Bucky snaps back at him. “It’s done.”

“All right,” Steve throws his hands up defensively. “If that’s how you want to play it.”

That’s how it is, Steve.” Buck turns back towards the kitchen. “That’s just how it _is_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Working for the man has some downsides.

Washington, DC, May 22, 2012 

SHIELD sets Steve up in a little office on the 18th floor, though he rarely spends much time in it. His first week in DC is full of assessments as SHIELD rigorously tests his physical and mental health. SHIELD’s historians also buttonhole him in one of SHIELD’s conference rooms for a few hours a day to go through reports he filed weeks or months ago, though the papers they pull out of their files are yellowed, edges foxed.

“Why do you even need this information?” Steve looks across the table at the senior researcher, Dr. Singh. He’s wearing a turban and his warm, tawny-colored skin takes on a shiny cast under the fluorescent lights. No one else seems to be able to hear the faint buzzing from the lightbulbs but it sets Steve’s teeth on edge.

“We want to make sure the records are as complete as possible, Captain,” Singh says calmly, with just the trace of an accent. “It’s important for us to understand the strategies and tactics you used.

Steve’s skeptical, can’t see how giving SHIELD, giving _HYDRA_ , information about how he and the Howlies hunted back in the ‘40s will do anyone any good. So he feigns difficulty remembering, and tries to use it as an opportunity to turn the tables and ask questions of them. Unfortunately, Peggy was always much better at interrogation than he was.

SHIELD’s doctors are also obsessed with physicals, strapping him to various machines and asking him to run or stretch or jump. Dr. Ackerman, the head physician, is always polite, but the tests remind Steve of being a lab rat for SSR-- even if the space is brighter, lighter, and the nurses wear scrubs instead of little uniforms and caps. The whole thing puts him in a bad mood-- he left behind life as a lab rat when he became a dancing monkey, and he’s not planning to go back to either any time soon. When the pretty blonde nurse, the one with brown eyes and a nose piercing, asks for a blood sample, he finally, flatly, refuses.

“No,” Steve tells her firmly, “I’m not giving any more samples.”

Dr. Ackerman, curly hair bouncing, hurries over from the standing desk where she’s studying the running data they just finished recording. She tries to convince him that the blood draw is standard procedure, but Steve keeps saying no; eventually, he simply walks out.

A few hours later, Steve’s fighting off a headache from the stupid lights and the buzzing. Agent Hill’s leaning in the doorway of his tiny office, arms crossed. She’s wearing a basic black SHIELD uniform, hair drawn back neatly in a ponytail, and Steve suddenly wonders when professional women stopped wearing red lipstick.

“I understand that you refused to provide a blood sample to the doctors, Rogers.” Hill raises one eyebrow in question. “You want to tell me what that’s all about?”

Steve leans back in his chair and looks her in the eye. “I’m not willing to provide additional blood samples.” He taps his pen against the desk once, twice. “Besides, I’m sure you took plenty of blood while I was unconscious, right?”

“Yes,” Hill stiffens a little, catching his implied accusation. “We needed to make sure you weren’t carrying any pathogens that might risk your recovery, or the staff working on you.”

Steve nods, makes himself smile pleasantly. “You took some just to study, too, right?”

Hill cocks her head, studying him. “Of course. The super-soldier serum is still unique, despite decades of work trying to replicate Dr. Erskine’s formula.”

“I saw the files on the Hulk and the Abomination, Agent Hill.” Steve grimaces and shakes his head. “At what point do you, does SHIELD, think it might be a good idea to shutter that research?” He rolls his shoulders, pushes back from the desk a bit. The office is so small his chair hits the wall behind him. “It hasn’t exactly gone well so far.”

Hill takes a breath and steps into the tiny room, and he rises at the implied threat. She pauses, and it looks to him like she’s forcing herself to relax. “That was the Army, Rogers. SHIELD--”

Steve slashes a hand through the air, cutting her off. “After Loki, I’m guessing SHIELD has enough on its plate without using my blood to create another monster.”

He takes a step around the desk, watches her narrow her eyes at the move. “Captain--”

He waves a hand, cutting her off. “I’m awake now, Agent Hill, and I’m saying no.” He forces himself to stand still, keep his voice calm. “If my employment is conditional on a blood test, use what you’ve got already.” He gives her a tight smile. “Or, I simply won't be employed by SHIELD.”

Hill’s quiet for a minute, clearly watching to see what he’ll do as the silence stretches, but he waits her out. Finally, she says, “I’ll let the doctors know that they do not have permission for a blood sample. But we may need to revisit the request for medical reasons down the road.”

“All right,” Steve nods. “Anything else, Agent Hill?”

She blinks, looking him an up and down look, then holds up a finger. “One thing. The arms master isn’t thrilled with your scores at the range.” Steve can feel his cheeks going warm. “We’ve scheduled some additional time for you on handguns.”

“Ok, that’s fine.” Steve forces himself to smile pleasantly, not bury his face in his hands. In the back of his head he hears Bucky-- Bucky from before-- shouting ‘are you fucking kidding me, Rogers, did you miss every fucking shot?’ “I’m sure I could use the practice.”

Hill looks like she’s going to say something else, but after a minute, she just says, “As you were, Captain,” and heads back down the hall.

***

“Hey, Cap. Can I come in?” It’s late afternoon and Tony’s bouncing on his toes on the granite steps, briefcase in his left hand. His dark grey suit is a bit rumpled, like he’s been wearing it all day. Steve can’t see his eyes in the mirrored blue sunglasses, but Tony looks a weird mix of eager and grave. Steve opens the door and silently steps aside to let Tony into the lobby of his apartment building.

Tony steps inside and takes off the sunglasses. “I figured I’d check check out the new digs, see what SHIELD thinks is icon-appropriate housing.” He stuffs the glasses into a pocket of his jacket, turning in a circle on the black-and white tile. 

“Tony.” Steve’s voice comes out flat, and he winces a little internally. He probably should sound more welcoming, but he wasn’t expecting anyone. Tony isn’t exactly his first choice for an unexpected visitor.

Tony brushes past Steve and the phone he’s holding catches the light. Steve glances down at the screen and reads HOUSE BUGGED. 

Quickly, he looks up at Tony, who smiles and points to the black dome in the center of the lobby’s ceiling. “Looks like they’ve got video here. I wonder if that goes straight to HQ?”

Steve had, at least, known it was a camera. He manages to keep his voice relatively steady when he says, “Yeah, they monitor the entrances for all SHIELD housing.”

Tony nods, then heads for the staircase, without waiting for Steve to show him the way. Steve rolls his eyes and mutters, “Fucking Starks,” under his breath. He speeds up, passes Tony on the first floor landing, and leads Tony up to his second-floor apartment.

Tony keeps up a steady stream of chatter as they go. Normally, this would make Steve crazy, but he’s too busy being furious about SHIELD bugging him. He’d blown up at Fury last week about the three-man team SHIELD had following him everywhere. He should have known that Fury gave in too easily. God damn it.

Inside the living room of his apartment, the manners Steve’s Ma beat into him take over. “Can I get you something to drink, Tony?”

“Sure.” Tony glances around, drops his briefcase on the ugly couch, then drops his head to fiddle with his phone. He doesn’t even look up, just says, “Water would be great, thanks.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and heads into the kitchen. When he comes back to the living room with a glass, Tony holds up his phone, angled so Steve can see the screen. It appears to be a schematic of the apartment. Tony taps it twice to zoom in on the living room, and Steve watches little red dots pop up on the screen. Tony’s face is grim as he walks quickly over to the bookcase that’s catty-corner to the windows. He gently slides his right hand along the underside of the middle shelf until he reaches the left corner. A moment later, he pulls out a small metal device, matte grey, about a quarter of the size of a dime. He drops it in the glass of water Steve’s still holding, and it sinks quickly to the bottom.

Steve glares down at the glass, then over at Tony’s phone, where he can see several more red dots continue to glow. “Tony, how did you--”

Tony cuts him off quickly. “--know where your place was? I asked Agent Romanoff. She seemed pleased you had a visitor.” Tony lays his index finger against his nose, then points at the phone screen and taps another red dot. Quietly, they head over to the next bug, maybe 15 feet from the first one. It’s hidden along the side of the window pane, under the curtains. “Have you been antisocial lately, Cap?”

Over the course of the next hour and a half, they manage to keep up a steady stream of banter, Tony needling him and Steve sighing and answering back. Eventually, Steve places the glass, half-full of the little listening devices, down on the black coffee table in front of the couch. Steve shivers as he stares down at it.

“Steve,” Tony says, and Steve looks up quickly. “Do you mind getting your shield?”

It’s sitting in the entryway, where Steve tends to keep it-- easy to grab in case of an emergency. He lifts it by the edge with his right hand, slides his left hand through the handles, the motion instinctive. When he turns back, Tony’s half-smiling, and holds out a hand, saying “Gimme.” Steve is, he must admit, meanly pleased when he hands it over and Tony’s arm dips at the unexpected weight of it.

Tony places the shield on the floor, star-side down, and pours out the glass, bugs and water both, into the concave center. He opens up the briefcase, pulling out one of his Iron Man gauntlets, and he must press a hidden button because somehow it opens up so he can slip it onto his right hand. Steve steps back as Tony fires a blast of energy at the bugs, steam flashing as the water evaporates. When Steve steps forward again, the inside of the shield is coated with melted metal, and Steve tips the shield up to pour the liquid out into one of the decorative bowls-- or if they aren't decorative, he hasn't figured out what their purpose is-- SHIELD left on the coffee table.

Tony studies his phone, still in his left hand, and then lets out a sigh. “Okay, it looks like this place is clean.” He collapses into the leather chair opposite the couch and does something so the gauntlet slides off and flies back to his briefcase _by itself_. (The fact that Steve finds this cool is something he will never admit to Tony.)

“I’ll take that drink now, Cap.” He looks up, gives Steve a tired smile. “Scotch if you have it, beer if you don’t.”

Over beers, Steve rants about SHIELD for a few long minutes. Then he lets himself wind down. “Thanks, Tony.” He stares at the bowl of slag on the table. “I appreciate it.”

“Well, the old man is a paranoid bastard,” Tony crosses his right ankle over his left knee. “He figured if they’d stopped following you it was only ‘cause they weren’t too worried about missing something.”

Then Tony leans over and digs into his briefcase again, this time pulling out a small red box. He flips it open. “Latest versions of the StarkPad and StarkPhone. I’ve put some nifty counter-spy features on these.”

“Tony--” Steve wants to object, he doesn’t like being given expensive toys. He stops himself from protesting, though, when he looks up into Tony’s face. Tony’s got deep circles under his eyes, the lines around his mouth have gotten deeper in the month since Steve last saw him. “Thanks, Tony. I appreciate it.”

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hydra's plot thickens...

Boston, MA, May 25, 2012 

It’s Friday night. Bucky’s getting ready to head down to Logan Airport when Steve calls to break the news. Over the phone he can hear a soft shush of traffic, like Steve’s walking around outside.

“Fury tried to chew me out. Apparently SHIELD isn’t impressed with Tony’s tricks.” Bucky hears Steve swallow and, fainter, the sound of the wind brushing through trees. “I made it clear that I’m not going to stand for constant surveillance.”

“Yeah, Tony told me about the apartment. Bugging the john?’ Bucky snorts. “They really want to know everything you’re doing.”

“Yeah.” Steve sounds like he’s rubbing his hand over his face, words a little muffled. “I think they went kind of nuts when I disappeared after New York.” He sighs. “I let Fury have it, but he wasn’t exactly apologetic. Right now, I don’t trust him not to have me followed if I go out of town.” He pauses, thinking. “Or, I don’t know. They can use traffic cameras to find me, right?”

“Yeah, yeah they can.” Bucky leans against the wall by the door. “Damn it.”

“Yeah, I know, Buck.” Steve’s quiet a minute. “I’m sorry, I really wanted to see you.”

Steve’s voice has a twist to it, like he’s telling the truth, but maybe not all of it. “All right, pal.” Bucky goes into the kitchen, grabs a beer from the fridge, pops the top. “Okay, well, tell me what’s happening, then. What you’ve been up to the past couple of weeks.”

For the next twenty minutes, Bucky listens to Steve detail the many and varied ways SHIELD bugged his apartment. Then he shifts gears and bitches about the SHIELD doctors, shrinks, historians, and agents who are trying to learn everything they can about how Captain America’s body and brain work. Steve also mentions his attempts to get information out of the historians, who haven’t given anything up, yet. During his entire screed, Steve says nothing about anyone who could, conceivably, be a tolerable person.

Finally, Bucky breaks in. “Are you planning on meeting someone you can actually stand to be around while you’re there?”

“What?” Steve sounds taken aback. “What do you mean, I’ve been meeting people.”

Bucky pulls his knees up, rests his stump on top of them. “Tony says I have to stage an intervention. Apparently, you only hang out with potentially HYDRA-compromised SHIELD agents.”

Steve snorts. “Tony’s just pissed because I won’t fly up to New York and play with him.”

“I realize you two got off on the wrong foot,” Bucky shakes his head, “but he isn’t actually the worst person on the planet.”

Steve sighs. “I know that, okay? It’s just. He talks so damn fast all the time. They all do. And the way they all need to constantly check their phones is really annoying.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky chuckles. “You need to acclimate. Make friends. Talk to people.”

“I talk to people outside of SHIELD,” Steve protests. “I, um. I talked to my neighbor. And um, the barista at Starbucks.”

“The barista?” Bucky says. “Really, Rogers? You have a deep meaningful conversation with the kid who pours your coffee.”

“Well, but my neighbor though, she's nice.” Steve’s voice is hopeful, like he thinks Bucky's going to let this go. “She's a nurse.”

“Uh huh.” Bucky’s skeptical. “Does nurse neighbor have a name?”

“Her name is Kate.” He pauses, clearly trying to come up with something to say about her. “She was telling me all about her week on the infectious disease ward.”

Bucky stares at the picture of the Higuchis he has on the wall, Minako in her graduation gown, grinning, and tries to remember if Steve was always like this. “All right, pal. When I got to the second half of the twentieth century I was in rough shape, and I still managed to meet people faster than you.”

Steve says sarcastically, “You told me one of them was four.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Do you like being a miserable bastard? Apparently, the only people you talk to are SHIELD, your barista, and a nurse who might be named Kate. Oh, and all those assholes who make you take selfies with them so they can post them on the internet.”

“What?” Steve sounds confused. “How do you--”

“Nita has a Google alert for you. She likes to share with the group.” Bucky refrains from mentioning that he has one set up for Steve too.

Steve sounds like he swallowed his tongue. “You want me to, what? Take up bowling?”

Bucky shrugs. “Or softball. Join a running club.” Then he gets a terrible, wonderful idea.

“Bucky, really, I’m fine,” Steve’s saying half-heartedly.

Bucky grins. “I spent a good chunk of the 1980s hooking up in dance clubs. It was very therapeutic.”

Steve’s silent on the other end, only the shush of traffic telling Bucky he hasn’t hung up. Finally, Steve says, “Uh, I’m sure you did.”

“Okay then, don’t hook up.” Bucky scratches his stubble. “Be Steve Rogers about it. Ask your neighbor out for coffee or something.”

Steve sighs. “You want me to ask the nurse out for coffee?”

“Yeah,” Bucky shrugs and, tries not to feel like the world’s biggest hypocrite-- he hates dating. “And if there’s no spark, at least you know someone else. They’ll probably introduce you to other people.”

Steve’s voice is annoyed and a little desperate. “I think you're forgetting a couple of things, Buck. Like I'm horrible with women. Like--”

He stops himself abruptly, and Bucky winces. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. “They tell you how Peggy Carter is?”

“Yeah.” Steve inhales roughly. “She’s in a facility in Philadelphia.”

Bucky tries to call up a memory of more than just red lips, an unimpressed voice. “You gonna see her? Philly isn't far from DC.”

Steve sounds a little broken. “I don't know.”

They're both quiet, until finally, Bucky says, “Look, I'm not going to deal with sad sack Steve Rogers from now to eternity.” He breaks out the big guns, instinct telling him this will work where nagging won’t. “I dare you to go on three dates before the next time you come up here.”

“Three?!” Steve sounds outraged. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky grins. “Trying to welsh on a dare?” He pretends to consider. “All right, then, two dates. You said you won’t be up for a couple of weeks, you think you can at least manage two dates by then?”

“Hey…

“You better tell me all about them, too,” Bucky grins. “And remember, you can't lie for shit.”

“You're a jerk,” Steve says. “Fine. If it’ll get you and Tony to shut up about my social life, I'll do it.”

“Good,” says Bucky, and for the first time that night he’s happy Steve isn’t in the room, that he can’t see Steve’s face.

* * *

Boston, MA, May 30, 2012 

The phone rings as Bucky’s coming into the house, hand full of plastic grocery bags and roll of paper towels tucked under his left arm. He dumps everything on the dining room table and fumbles for his phone, but he’s not fast enough to pick up the call from Charles.

“Fuck,” Bucky sighs, then hits the button to call him back.

“James,” says Charles, then, “Hello.”

Bucky grins. “Hey, Charles” he says, “is Anna working on your phone manners?”

Charles’ voice is wry, “Apparently.”

“What’s up?” Bucky tucks the phone into his shirt pocket and heads into the kitchen with the groceries. “I’ve scheduled off all of next week, through the weekend, for our trip.”

“I have been unable to contain the story,” Charles says, sighing. “One of the networks ran it as human interest earlier this week.”

Bucky leans against the counter and runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at it.

“The spin was very positive-- very much along the lines of ‘in our darkest hour, _all_ citizens of New York pulled together-- human and otherwise.’” There is a pause and then Charles says, “If you were anyone else, I think my father would have you in front of the first camera we could find.”

Bucky laughs weakly. “Are we that hard up for spokesmen?”

“Mmm…” says Charles.

In the background, Bucky hears Anna say, “Good-looking wolves who can keep their temper in front of a camera? Yes.”

“Thanks, Anna,” Bucky says wryly. Charles growls in response. It makes him shiver.

“Stop that,” Anna says. Bucky catches the muted sound of a hand hitting a clothed body.

“I’m not after your mate, Charles,” Bucky rolls his eyes. In the back of his head, the wolf whines. Bucky ignores it.

After a beat, Charles continues, “Bran has spoken with Phillip, and as the Alpha of the Manhattan pack he is neither confirming or denying it was a werewolf sighting, though, I quote, ‘They are working with local authorities in the rebuilding efforts.’”

“Okay,” says Bucky, “so where does this leave our trip? Do we need to delay it?”

Charles hums. “Let’s stick with the plan. As you said earlier, the attention is focused on New York. Hopefully the timing will give us some cover.”

“All right,” Bucky rubs his hand down his face and turns back to the bags of groceries. “I’ll see you up there then.”

“And, Captain Rogers?”

“He’s in DC,” Bucky opens a cabinet, puts the roll of paper towels in it. “SHIELD wasn’t happy when he disappeared. We figured it made more sense for him to go back then to have them tearing the country apart trying to find him.”

“And we haven’t had a man on the inside before,” Charles says thoughtfully. “That could be useful.”

“Yeah, Tony’s attempts to break into their servers have been… variable.” Bucky pulls out a glass and fills it from the tap. “He got some more data during the invasion, though. He’s going through it now.”

Bucky leans against the counter sipping his water as Charles makes a considering noise. “How is the Captain checking in with you?”

“He’s been calling-- Tony gave us a way to jam signals-- and he’s going to come up in a couple of weeks.” Bucky’s already thinking of ways to get Steve up here without a tail.

Charles is apparently thinking on the same lines. “Given the news story, he should be very careful not to let anyone know where he’s going. He could lead them right to you.”

“I know,” says Bucky. “It’s a risk, but--” he lets his voice trail off, not quite sure what to say. “He’s important, Charles.”

He braces for questions, but Charles only says, “All right. See what he learns, perhaps it is something we can use. In the meantime--”

“See you next week,” Bucky says, inexplicably relieved.

“Stay safe,” corrects Charles, and hangs up.

Bucky stares down at his phone for a moment, then says, “To the best of my ability.”

* * *

Knox, Maine, June 6, 2012 

Charles hates cars. On their first day in the area, Bucky drives them to the wildlife sanctuary that backs up on two sides of the Hydra facility. He looks right, to check the side mirror, and catches Charles grinding his teeth. “I’m going,” Bucky glances down at the speedometer, “three miles under the speed limit.” Charles just glares at him.

The plan is to hike through the sanctuary today, matching the Hydra facility’s borders to the detailed geological survey maps Charles brought. They stand by the car for a few minutes after Bucky parks, looking at the maps again. Bucky points to the empty lot on the other side of the facility. “Did you find out who owns that?”

Charles shakes his head. “I’m still sorting through holding and shell companies. Whoever owns it doesn’t particularly want to be found.” Bucky grunts. They’re both fairly certain it’s Hydra, but Charles wants to cross all the T’s, dot all the I’s. He folds up the map and they head into the sanctuary, taking a leisurely, roundabout route through the place.

***

The second morning, Bucky drives them back to the facility, and this time they head straight to the border with the Hydra facility. By noon they’ve got a sense of the outside defenses-- an electric fence rings the property, then there’s about 20 feet of open land between the fence and the forest. Bucky figures that was once a solid defense strategy-- the management probably made sure the grass was mowed regularly. Now, though, the area is overgrown with wild grasses and the forest is advancing; there’s good cover, if you’re willing to keep low.

Of course, there are cameras. Some are perched obviously at regular intervals on fence poles, others are less obvious. Between them, Charles and Bucky spot at least two dozen. As they identify them, Charles records their locations and patterns on the map, the two of them carefully tracking angles and intervals. They’re quiet as they cover the miles and Bucky finds himself sinking into the stillness, listening to Charles breathing and the sounds of the animals in the woods.

In the early evening, they pause to sit on a fallen tree and eat peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Together they study the map laid out between them on the ground. Periodically one or the other of them traces a potential path-- there are a few different options, but it’s going to be difficult to make it through the camera line undetected. Eventually, Charles points and says, “There.”

Bucky bends down and studies the place he’s pointing to carefully, calling up the terrain in his mind’s eye. It’s going to be tight, but he can’t see anything better. “All right.”

***

Day three, they move. They get over the fence without triggering an alarm, and Charles jimmies open a door without difficulty. They’re both tense and alert, moving slowly and quietly, working in tandem to find and avoid the cameras inside. There are only a few on the ground floor-- easy to avoid.

Slowly, they make their way through the ground floor. The tile floor isn’t too dusty, though the yellow paint on the walls is faded. The outer corridors are dim, but the inner offices are dark except for the beams of their flashlight.

“James,” Charles says, voice so quiet it’s nearly soundless, “do you smell anything familiar?”

Bucky shakes his head-- the rooms smell of dust and traces of the cleaning solution and, fainter, someone’s cologne. Nothing that triggers memories, emotions.

The ground and second floors are empty-- industrial labs and offices alike stripped of almost everything but the furniture bolted into walls and floor. They carefully play their flashlights in every corner of each room and the only paper they find is tiny pieces of shredded scraps. They collect them carefully, Bucky scenting each one, but he doubts they will yield any useful information.

“I think this was the legitimate business,” he murmurs, and Charles gives a short nod.

They head downstairs, then, first to the main basement level-- more office space, larger laboratories, though again, there’s only steel furniture and tiny scraps of paper. Then Bucky locates a staircase nowhere on the blueprints, and they begin to descend. Charles goes first, flashlight playing over the stairs, while Bucky slips his hand in his pocket, fingers the knife he keeps there.

In the first room they find a bank of computers, plastic and metal littering the floor, wires torn and hanging. The whole thing looks like someone took an axe to it.

“Deliberate sabotage?” Charles sets the electric lantern on a shelf, then turns to look over the mess, careful fingers running over the broken machinery. “Why wouldn’t they remove this, like they did with everything upstairs?”

Bucky considers, walking carefully through the destruction, then begins slowly pacing the room beyond, the empty space echoing. Here there’s a faint smell of mold over the scent of cleaning solution-- this place isn’t as waterproof as someone hoped. At first glance, the walls appear solid, but then so did the room upstairs. He checks the walls carefully for another hidden door as he responds to Charles’ question.

“Maybe most staff weren’t aware of what went on down here. Maybe, when this facility was closed down, they couldn’t remove this stuff without being found out?” Bucky hears Charles hums and then, out of the corner of his eye, sees Charles squat down. “Find something?”

“Maybe.” Charles tucks his flashlight between his head and neck, then starts fiddling with the computers. “I think this is not as broken as they would wish.”

Bucky nods. He’s in the far corner of the room now, and something about the wall catches his eye. He tucks the light under his left arm, begins running fingertips over the wall. There’s a faint, very faint, line under his fingers and he follows it up, across, down.

“Charles,” he looks back over to the hulking wall of computers, “I think I found another door.”

“Okay,” Charles murmurs, voice soft. “Come back here for a minute, I’d like your help with these.”

Reluctantly, Bucky turns and some instinct keeps him from turning his back to the door, means he walks across the room at an angle, keeping an eye on that corner. Charles notices and when Bucky gets close, he raises his eyebrows in question. Bucky shrugs. “What do you need?”

Together, they carefully hook Charles’ smartphone up to each of the three servers, Charles downloading everything he can. It takes several minutes, and Bucky finds himself looking through the darkness to where he found the door. Charles doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching, carefully.

Finally, Charles disengages from the final server, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket and carefully coiling the wires. Bucky’s already standing when Charles rises from a crouch and together they move to the far corner, flashlights bobbing on the floor.

It’s Bucky who finds the mechanism for the door, pushing hard until there’s a click, and the door swings toward them, the hinges oiled and moving smoothly. He’s closer to the opening and sees it first, shapes taking time to resolve themselves in the uneven light, but he’s already covering his nose, trying to take shallow breaths. Charles says something short and sharp, though Bucky can’t make sense of it, then he’s being pulled back so the door swings all the way open.

At first, the bodies are nearly perfectly preserved, wrapped in a clear covering and leaning stiff against the wall. The plastic obscures their features, but it’s as if they have been sealed by some kind of magic-- they smell like they’re no more than one or two days dead, though the level of dust in the facility means they must have died at least a few years ago.

As they watch, the bodies seem to wither and visibly decay. Charles moves forward. “We need to see them before they are too damaged to learn anything.”

Bucky nods. He runs his hand over his face, trying to regain his composure, then places his flashlight on the ground and moves to help Charles. Together, they lift each body and lay it out on the ground, working quickly to remove enough of the coverings to see their faces. It’s not fast enough, though. By the time they’re finished, the faces have sunken and the limbs have twisted strangely.

“They’re not-- The smells are mixed up.” Bucky shines his flashlight over the bodies, feeling ill.

“Fae,” Charles says, voice tight. “They smell of different kinds of Fae, and wolf, and human.” He bends down, takes one of the twisted arms, and holds it up to the light. “Like they were trying to create something new.”

Bucky feels numb, and in his head a voice echoes, ‘This is a new world, Sergeant.’ Helplessly, he says, “Gabe said he put it together, that as soon as Carter knew, she stopped him.” He bends down and gently touches the smallest body. It looks the same size as Minako at age ten, and he shivers.

He straightens to find Charles watching him. “This extended beyond what your friend knew, James.”

“Cut off one head…” Bucky stares down at the bodies, and then looks up at Charles. “There are going to be more. And I bet some were successful.”

* * *

Boston, MA, June 23, 2012 

Bucky plans Steve’s return from DC as if he’s planning a mission-- trying to figure out the best way to get him to Boston without SHIELD catching on to where he’s going and why. Steve travels to New York by way of Philadelphia and a Fae who owes Charles some favors. After Philadelphia, Tony provides a car and driver for the rest of the trip. Bucky expects Steve to either be furious at the required deceptions or relieved to be away from SHIELD. Instead, Steve arrives from DC looking pensive, and he’s quiet most of the first day.

Finally, over dinner and poking at his peas, Steve says, “Fury’s pushing me to commit to SHIELD. To sign on as an agent and start running missions. Maybe head up my own team.” He looks at Bucky from across the table, lips quirking up in a half smile. “I think-- I think I'm going to do it.”

For a minute, Bucky can't hear anything, his wolf howling in his head. When his thoughts clear enough, he puts down his fork. He opens his mouth, closes it. “That’s a… shift from the last time we talked. You were just going to go down there for a few weeks-- figure out the lay of the land. Make a graceful exit.”

Steve mirrors him, putting down his own fork and then folding his arms on the table, leaning forward. “It's just. Look, Buck, you have a life here. You've got those kids, Alison, the gym, your pack.” He smiles crookedly, “You've just--” he waves his hand. “Maybe Tony was right.”

Bucky stares at him, trying to make sense of that. “Ok?”

“Maybe I need some time to think about things.” Steve glances over to the windows, then back, mouth twisting. “To make friends. Figure out where I go from here.”

Bucky cocks his head. “Will signing something more permanent with SHIELD help with that?”

“I think so,” Steve says, definite. “And let’s face it, they are never going to let me go easy, just let me walk away without tracking me right back here.”

Bucky's quiet for a moment, trying to think past the wolf. Steve sits up straighter, shoulders squaring. “Right now, they don’t know if they can trust me-- I’m not an agent, just temporary. For the most part, they’ve been having me go over files from the war, trying to figure out what we left out. When it’s not that, they want to test my reflexes. They aren’t willing to invest in me, _open up_ to me until they think I’m serious.” He leans forward again, taps the table with his right index and middle fingers. “I’m a hell of a lot more use to you as a man on the inside, then I am coming back here, twiddling my thumbs, and watching you run a gym. I can work this whole phase 3 angle, try to uncover more about Hydra-in-SHIELD.” His eyes are bright and eager. “Maybe it’ll help us figure out what Zola was up to.”

“And this is all pure altruism on your part? You've got nothing to prove?” It comes out sharper than he intended. Bucky shakes his head. “I _know_ you, Steve.”

Steve leans back, crosses his arms. “You really think I'm going to sit this one out? After what they did to you?”

Bucky sighs, stands up and grips the back of his chair. He has the feeling that this shouldn’t surprise him. “Just-- you don't have to do this, Steve. This is my fight.” He tries to smile a little, but it feels wrong, feels twisted on his face. “Look, the war’s over. You get to just come home.”

A spasm of something passes over Steve’s face and Bucky tightens his fingers on the chair frame. “Used to be,” Steve says quietly, steadily, “that your fight was my fight, and vice versa.”

Bucky closes his eyes. Somewhere deep, beyond memory, he knows this, knows asking Steve to sit this out somewhere safe was never an option.

“And,” Steve’s saying as Bucky opens his eyes, “I'm not ready to retire just yet. Got unfinished business.”

The wolf thinks this is a terrible idea. Bucky, on the other hand. Well, he’s not so sure. When Steve was in DC, he missed him, but Bucky’d also started to feel normal again. At least, more like he had felt back before he looked up and saw aliens on that TV.

“All right,” says Bucky slowly, thinking it through. “If you’re going to go, we need regular check-ins. We need to figure out a protocol for getting you up here for visits.” He paces, considering what it’ll be like trying to manage Steve while he’s a SHIELD agent. Nothing he remembers says this will be easy. He turns back to face Steve. “We need to figure out protocols for sharing data, intel. For making sure you’re safe.” He points. “And, you need to meet people, Steve. I’m not kidding, you can’t just constantly be in fighting-Nazis mode all the time.”

Steve looks relieved, like he was expecting more of a fight. He slumps a bit in his chair, letting his arms fall to his sides. “Okay, that sounds-- That sounds good.”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You take unnecessary risks, I'm going to DC and pulling you out myself.”

“You're still a mother hen, Barnes,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

Bucky snorts and takes his seat again. “And you're still a would-be martyr who’s too stubborn for his own good. Okay,” he leans forward. “Now let me tell you what we got out of that Hydra factory in Maine.”

* * *

 Boston, MA, June 28, 2012

The club is dark and the music is almost too loud for Bucky’s sensitive ears, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, because he’s on the dance floor, pressed against two bodies. In the back of his mind, the wolf is silently sulking. He’s determined to ignore it.

Bucky leans back into the the sturdy body behind him, lets his ass grind against a nice, thick cock. The woman in front is pressed against him thighs to chest, and every time she moves he gets a whiff of her scent. The three of them move together easily, shifting into a dirtier grind as the music slides into something slower, darker.

The man leans down, licks Bucky’s neck, making him shiver before he gets to Bucky’s ear. He murmurs, ”You should come home with us.”

Bucky smiles at that, turns his head to respond. “You a package deal?”

There’s a deep voice in his ear, a hand sliding up his right side. “You’re pretty enough for both of us.” He slips his hand around the woman’s back, pulls her closer to them both. “And Lena likes you.”

Lena leans into Bucky’s left side, her hands rest on his shoulder for balance as she stands on her toes to reach his ear. “You seem like a gentleman,” she whispers, “We could have fun with you.”

Bucky considers as Lena sucks a mark onto his collarbone. They’re both so pretty-- her eyes are light, standing out against her brown skin, and the man’s mouth is currently nibbling on Bucky’s other shoulder. Bucky wants to feel that mouth on his cock. He’s been so tense lately, and these two-- well, they could have some fun.

He bends down to take Lena’s mouth and she gives in so sweetly. He whispers in her ear, “What’s his name?”

“Marco,” she whispers back.

Bucky turns in their grip, facing Marco now, feels him hard against Bucky’s hip. Grips his short dreadlocks tightly, pulling his head back so he can bite his neck, mouth moving over his pulse. Marco offers up more of a fight than Lena, and Bucky smiles as he pulls away.

“So hot,” he hears Lena choke out behind him.

He’s grinning when he says, “Marco, I’d be happy to join you.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers: eligible bachelor

Washington, DC, June 29, 2012 

Steve’s heading to the garage, on his way home for the day, when Natasha swings into step beside him. He startles, arm rising as he starts to turn, before he checks himself. Natasha keeps walking, not a hitch in her step and he glares down at her red curls before he forces himself to start walking again. He catches up to her in one long stride, opens his mouth to start yelling and then stops and closes it again. It’s not worth getting angry. Anger seems to mostly roll right off Natasha.

They pace through the corridor, Steve shortening his stride so she doesn’t have to walk too fast to keep up, until they reach the elevator. As they wait, she says, “So you disappeared again last weekend, Rogers. Every time you disappear off-grid like that, you send Fury into a tizzy.”

“A tizzy?” Steve shakes his head as they step into the elevator, and he taps the button for the garage level.

“A tizzy,” she confirms, straight-faced. “It’s an old-fashioned word, Rogers. I figured you’d know it.” Steve rolls his eyes at her, and she grins before sobering. “Whenever you go off grid, Nick goes a little crazy. If you could keep him posted on where you’re going that would help.” Natasha leans against the wall, watching Steve. “When you disappeared after Manhattan-- It's been a while since I've seen him that angry at Stark.”

“Huh.” Steve looks down and fiddles with the cuff of his shirt.

Natasha cocks her head. “You aren't going to jump to his defense?”

“Tony?” He laughs as he meets her gaze. “As far as I can tell, Stark can take care of himself.”

Natasha smiles up at him and if he didn’t know better, he’d think this was just a casual making-friends conversation. “You gonna tell me where you keep going?” she asks, and yeah, her voice is warm, relaxed.

Steve puts on a thinking face, pretends to consider the request, before he shakes his head. “No, I don't think so,” he says, keeping his voice pleasant and even.

“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t.” She straightens, makes a show of looking him up and down. “Well, whoever you’re hooking up with, she's got great taste.”

Steve feels confused, and it must show on his face because Natasha gestures to his jeans.

“You don't think I could’ve bought these myself?” Steve asks, unaccountably annoyed given how hard he’d fought with Bucky when they’d gone shopping. He had spent a lot of time complaining about 21st century fashion, how every pair of pants Bucky let him buy were way too tight over his rear. Bucky had just laughed and pointed out the Captain America suit was even tighter.

Natasha doesn’t even do him the courtesy of considering it, just shakes her head. “In a few more months, maybe. Once you've had a chance to get used to being here, notice how men's fashion changed, and got tired of hearing old man jokes, sure.” She looks into his eyes. “But you haven’t had time to think about fashion yet. Something must have changed your mind.” She grins and lets her voice drop, raising her eyebrows suggestively. “Or someone.”

Steve’s mouth drops open. “How do you know that?” It comes out more petulant than he means it to. Natasha sounds so sure of herself.

Natasha’s face smooths into a neutral expression. “It's what I do.”

They reach the garage, and she follows him over to his bike, parked in a corner. He can’t help running his hand over the deep navy blue of the tank as he kicks up the stand and pushes it forward.

“Nice,” she says appreciatively as he rolls the bike into the light. “You get this on one of your walkabouts?”

Steve frowns in confusion. “Walkabout?” Natasha just smiles, taking a couple of steps backward. Steve sighs as he swings a leg over the bike and settles in the saddle. “You need a ride, Natasha?”

“Nah, I'm good.” She throws him a jaunty little salute and raises her voice to be heard over the sound of the motor as he starts up the bike. “See you around, Steve.”

“Always a pleasure, Agent Romanoff,” he mutters under his breath, before rolling his shoulders and heading out.

***

Bucky still won’t shut up about Steve making friends. Back in May, after his aborted trip to Boston, Steve’d put socializing on hold. At the time, Fury seemed to figure out that keeping Steve around meant getting him out of the office. Turns out, the war business has evolved in 70 years. For a few weeks it was training course after training course, SHIELD bringing him up to date on a whole host of skills. If pressed, Steve might admit he enjoyed it. He’d had so little training before being thrown into things at the Front. There was something pleasurable in training with new tools and drilling different techniques. And, if he also spent the time trying to figure out how SHIELD worked, well. That was just part of the training, right?

Bucky, however, is still stuck on Steve’s social life. (And, if he’s being honest, Steve knows he’s never been able to say no to a dare.) Going on two dates doesn’t seem like it should be too hard, but then there’s a training mission with STRIKE, followed by paperwork, and then he’s going to parajumper training, and then, just maybe, there’s a week or so of him pretending he doesn’t really have to win this.

Unfortunately, Bucky isn’t letting it go. They talk on the phone once or twice each week and then Steve gets an email from jphiguchi@stark.com that included several links to an agony aunt called “Captain Awkward.” Steve sends back a selfie of himself giving Bucky the finger.

It’s been roughly 70 years since Steve last tried to go on a date with a girl and, despite what he hears about it being cool in the twenty-first century, he has no idea how you’d even do that with a guy. Awkwardly flirting in the queer bars back home might have worked once upon a time, but now that everyone knows who Captain America is… he’s pretty sure a visit to the places he looked up on Stark’s phone is only going to end up splashed in the news.

He decides to play it safe, conscious of the irony that Bucky’s _still_ the only reason he’s going to end up on a date. The next morning, standing in line at the Starbucks a block and a half from his apartment, Steve dutifully tries to start a conversation with a pretty woman standing in front of him.

“We met in line for coffee,” he complains to Bucky as he heads downstairs Monday morning. He’s heading to meet Natasha, who’d offered to drive him to today’s training exercise outside of the city. “Why the hell did she want to meet me in a tea place?”

Bucky’s already laughing at him, and Steve can see Natasha waiting, so he just says, “I have to go, asshole,” and hangs up.

“Did someone get up on the wrong side of the bed?” asks Natasha, leaning out the window of a sleek, foreign-looking sports car.

“No-oo,” says Steve, tossing his bag into the back and throwing himself into the seat. It’s even lower than he expected. “No sympathy about a bad date.”

“Bad date, huh?” says Natasha, smoothly shifting gears as they head south and hit the lights at Dupont Circle. “I promise to be sympathetic.”

Steve looks over at her, carefully not saying a word. She glances at him and rolls her eyes before turning back to focus on moving through traffic. “All right, I’ll at least make sympathetic noises.”

Steve snorts, but he starts telling her about it anyway. First, about how he’d been so awkward, and then how they’d had nothing in common, “...and the whole time we were sitting next to this pool full of carp. Carp!”

“Wait--” she asks. “Did you go to Teaism?” she asks. “Down on 8th, near the Naval Memorial?”

“Yeah,” Steve shrugs. “I think that’s what it was called.”

“Terrible choice,” Natasha starts to laugh. “Maria goes there for lunch and swears the place is a vortex for terrible first dates. She eavesdrops on them weekly.”

“I believe it,” says Steve. “I mean, the fish alone.” He can’t help the shudder that moves through him. “They just stare up at you and want you to feed them.” This gets another laugh from Natasha.

“Good cookies, though,” she shrugs.

“No,” Steve shakes his head. “I am not going back to try them.”

“Salty oatmeal,” Natasha looks at him. “You could do worse.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “The twenty-first century needs to get over its obsession with salty desserts.”

***

Date two is with a woman he meets while running on the trails through Rock Creek Park. She speeds up to catch him and he slows down a little so she can. She’s got long dark hair up in a ponytail and long legs under very short running shorts. When she catches up with him, she shoots Steve a grin and speeds up, shouting, “Can’t catch me!” over her shoulder. Steve never could resist a challenge.

He races up the Calvert Street hill after her. At the top, she’s out of breath and he works a bit to fake it. He holds out a hand. “Steve.”

“Misun,” she says, shaking it.

They end up racing nearly every day for the next week. He finally asks her out as they walk across the Taft bridge and past what, apparently, used to be the Chinese embassy.

“Okay,” says Misun, “I’d like that. How do you feel about rock climbing?”

Steve’s mainly feeling glad that rock climbing won’t involve a pool of fancy fish. “Sure,” he says, and they make plans for Saturday.

***

Steve calls Bucky on Saturday night feeling less triumphant about his two dates than he thought he would.

“Is she gonna be ok?” asks Bucky.

“The doctors said she’s going to need knee surgery,” Steve tells him, wandering down toward the Circle, where he can hear someone drumming and sees a couple of kids splashing in the fountain. “When I dropped her off at home, I had to carry her in. Her mother started shouting in Korean and hit me with a magazine.”

“Wow,” says Bucky, “You sure can pick ‘em, pal.”

***

Natasha takes one look at his face in the breakroom on Monday and says, “Rough weekend, Rogers?”

“My date fell off a cliff and busted her knee and then her ma beat me up,” he says, straight-faced.

Natasha bursts out laughing.

Later in the day, Steve comes out of the locker room to find Natasha leaning against the wall waiting for him. She hands him one to the to-go coffee cups she’s holding as they start walking. He takes a sip and is so startled, he spits it out onto the floor. As he stands there, embarrassed and confused, Natasha laughs so hard that eventually she has to lean against the wall to stay upright. He looks down at the cup and it reads “Teaism” on the side.

“Fuck you, Natasha,” he grits out. She waves her hand and keeps laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That rock-climbing story actually happened, btw.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not paranoia if they're really after you.

Boston, MA, August 14, 2012

It’s the tail end of a heat wave, hot but not too humid for August. It’s the first time in a while that Bucky’s had the afternoon free and it hasn’t been too hot to move, so he’s out back trimming the hedges, when he hears the sound of the car turning into the driveway. He turns off the hedge clippers-- it’s mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, he isn’t expecting anyone.

He drops the clippers and takes three quiet steps to his right, into the shadow of the house. He can feel the heat rising off the wooden shingles as he rocks onto the balls of his toes, and then--

“Anyone home?” Tony’s voice reaches him from the back gate, on the other side of the house.

Bucky leans his left shoulder against the house, takes his hand off the knife strapped inside his jeans, and takes a deep breath. Then he straightens, walks across the patio and behind the garage to the gate separating the front yard from the back.

“Hey, Tony.” There’s more growl than he wants in his voice, wolf awake and on edge. He waves Tony in and then walks a wide circle around the yard, trying to get rid of some of the adrenaline. From the corner of his eye he watches Tony stand near the gate. Tony takes off his sunglasses and he fiddles with them awkwardly as Bucky makes another circle.

“Old man?” Tony sounds cautious, and Bucky waves him over to the patio. Bucky’s aware of every step the kid takes as he crosses the burnt-out grass. Bucky gave up on watering a few weeks ago, that patch always dies this time of year. He heads back to where he dropped the clippers, picks them up and leans them against the house before grabbing the rake and dealing with the trimmings.

By the time he’s calm enough to walk over, the trimmings are in a pile and Tony’s taken a seat on the top of the picnic table, feet resting on the bench. He’s fussing around with something small and dark which Bucky recognizes, after a moment, as a phone.

“You ok?” Tony asks, not looking up. It’s a decent tactic when dealing with an angry werewolf, and Bucky smiles.

“Yeah, just feeling a little more paranoia than usual these days.” Bucky makes himself not stand over Tony. ‘That’s looming,’ he tells the wolf. ‘Not nice.’ The wolf, on edge for the past couple of weeks, thinks they should loom anyway. Tony should be reminded not to make them angry.

Tony glances up, says, “Yeah, Pep and I saw that news clip about you. The people they interviewed had good things to say about Manhattan’s,” he makes air quotes, “‘werewolf hero.’”

“I’ve seen it,” Bucky grits out. That had been an extremely awkward pack meeting.

Tony raises a brow. “Well, if nothing else, polls in New York have been leaning more heavily toward ‘werewolves, they’re just like us,’ recently.”

Bucky stares at Tony for a minute, then forces himself to look away-- it never does any good to stare Tony down, even if the wolf wants to. “Tony, why are you  _ here _ ?”

Tony finally looks him in the eyes. “Since you were right about them bugging Steve in DC, I got curious to see who else they might be tracking.”

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair and starts moving again. He passes the stack of plastic chairs on the patio and stops at that patch of dead grass, kneels down to check and see if any of it’s worth saving.

“So Jarvis and I went wandering through SHIELD’s files again and found a folder devoted to the good Captain with video, audio, records of his Google searches.” Bucky looks up from the grass and back at Tony, who’s wearing a pained smile. “We knew this. I mean, if they were bugging his house, not surprising. But then I found similar folders. Checked some of them-- there’s audio files, lot of video from public cameras. Most of them seem to be people with… abilities.” Tony meets Bucky’s eyes again. “The other Avengers, confirmed Fae and werewolves. Some people who are publicly out. Others,” he shrugs, “not so much.”

“Anyone we know?” Bucky asks.

“Adam Hauptman, that werewolf from out west. His wife Mercedes. An Isaac Owens from Boston, Tom and Moira Franklin in Seattle...”

“Damn it.” Tony stops talking, but Bucky waves for him to keep going. As he listens, he digs his hand into the grass. It lifts up easily, the roots withered and yellow. Tony reads off a list of names from his phone. Then Tony gets to--

“Charles and Anna Smith from Montana--”

“Shit!” Bucky stands and walks back over to Tony, still swearing, not paying attention to what language he’s using until Tony looks up at him and asks, “Is that Japanese?”

It forces him to think. “Korean.” He’s definitely looming over Tony now, wolf shining out of his eyes.

“Huh,” Tony slides from the tabletop down, sitting on one of the benches. It makes it easier for Bucky to sit down. As he slides onto the tabletop that Tony vacated, he wonders if Tony’s even aware of these things. He probably is, Tony’s better with body language than most people give him credit for.

“Okay, go back,” Bucky's voice is a growl. “You said Charles and Anna Smith. Do you have their files?”

“Do I have the files, he asks.” Tony throws up his hands, looking mournfully at the hedges. “What am I, old man? An amateur? Of course I have the files.”

He pulls a flash drive out of a pocket, holds it in his open palm. Bucky glares down at it, then sighs, scrubbing his hand through his hair again. “Do you have time to go through this with me before you head back?” 

Tony winces. “Not really, but they’re pretty self-explanatory.” He glances down at the phone in his hands. “Pepper and I have a thing tonight, I have to head back.”

Something in Tony’s voice makes Bucky look at him again, really look at him. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, stupidly expensive sneakers, and now Bucky catches the deep circles under his eyes, grease under his nails. 

“When’s the last time you slept, kid?”

Tony ignores him, standing up and turning toward the gate.

_ “Tony _ .” Bucky pulls on the wolf a little, so Tony turns back and looks at him. “When is the last time you slept?” he asks again, gentle.

Tony closes his eyes, sways a little bit on his heels. “Can’t sleep. It’s--” He stops, shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “I’m thinking about leaving New York for a while.”

Bucky tracks the jittery movements, the hands that shake very slightly. Says quietly, “Nightmares don’t care where you are, Tony.”

Tony looks at him, then back down at the concrete of the patio. “I keep-- I’m seeing star clusters I have no business knowing about.”

Bucky nods, stays quiet.

Tony’s looking off into the middle distance, his arms clenched around his stomach. “Then, sometimes, I think I’m back in that cave with that-- dark, hot, fucking battery hooked to my chest.”

Bucky stands slowly, making sure Tony can see his movements. Tony watches until Bucky’s standing in front of him. “You tried anything but liquor and working until you fall over?”

Tony’s smile is more of a grimace. “They’re classics for a reason.”

Bucky nods, puts his hand on Tony’s shoulder, the kid tracking every move. “You’re too tired to drive back,” he says, “and I’m not telling Pepper I let you risk it.” He steers Tony toward the open, grassy part of the yard between patio and back fence. “I’m going to grab the gloves from the garage and we’re going to go a few rounds. Then I’m going to make you eat something and sleep. I’ll take a look at the files while you’re out.” He points at the phone Tony’s still holding. “Either you can call Pepper, or I will.”

Tony shudders and throws his hands up. “I’m not telling her I’m cancelling on Momofuku night.”

Bucky smiles, “Okay then, give me your phone and you go get the gloves. Same place as always.”

Tony stands, blinking, before he extends his arm with the phone, then looks up into Bucky’s eyes and says, “Thank you.”

Bucky nods. “Always. Now go get the gloves.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Rogers: definitely not a farm boy.

Washington, DC, August 30, 2012

Steve called for a break in this debriefing twenty minutes ago. Now he’s leaning back in his chair, leafing idly through one of the files on the conference room table. He stares out the wall of windows to the bright sky and the sun glinting off the Potomac. When he drove in this morning, the muggy heat had already been creeping in, but at this point he’d gladly take DC’s 100-degree heat and 99-percent humidity over being trapped in this room and going over reports he filed in 1944. 

Dr. Singh and his merry band of SHIELD historians are over by the coffee machine talking animatedly about... something. Possibly about how little detail he and Bucky actually wrote into those reports. Steve suppresses the urge to pray for an emergency bad enough that they have to activate him and send him to the field. It’s a horrible idea to pray for bad things. He knows this. But… Maybe a tiny disaster, somewhere populated mainly by cows? If it’s mostly dead cows then everyone just gets more steak, right? 

That kind of thinking isn’t going to help anything. Steve drags his hand over his face and stands up, leading to startled glances from a couple of the historians. He shoots them a reassuring smile; then, since they’re still blocking access to the coffee machine, steps closer to the windows. 

He’s staring out and fantasizing about being on his bike, wind through his hair, when the door squeals open. Steve tenses at the sound, looks over to see Fury striding purposefully into the room. He turns to face him, forcing himself to keep his arms at his sides. 

“You bored, Captain?” asks Fury, his eyebrow raised disdainfully. “Got better things to do than take part in these briefings?”

Steve looks around the conference room. “I thought that’s what I was doing, Sir.”

Fury snorts. “That’s not what I hear,” he says, and gestures to the group of now-silent historians, huddled in the corner.

Steve leans back against the windows and decides it’s okay to cross his arms over his chest now. “When I agreed to come work for SHIELD, Director,” he narrows his eyes at Fury, “I thought I’d be helping protect my country, not spending all my time in a library talking about reports we filed over 70 years ago.” 

Fury stands silently for a long moment, studying him. Steve forces himself to stillness, trying to read his expression, but Fury has a damn good poker face. Finally Fury says, “Come with me, Captain.”

***

Fury is quiet as he leads them through the halls of the Triskelion. As they walk, they’re passed by SHIELD personnel in suits and SHIELD-issued uniforms. Steve watches one young white woman, her red curls escaping from her neat ponytail, carrying a stack of files that threaten to slide out from under her arm. She’s so busy trying to manage the files that she nearly runs into them and, when she looks up, she lets out a gasp and jumps out of the way. A few people look over to see what’s happened, but for the most part, everyone keeps moving purposefully. Steve wonders how many of them are aware of even a quarter of the secrets their agency holds.

Fury leads them into the elevator, and they get off on a floor Steve’s never been on. They end up in a small conference room. Natasha and Agent Hill are sitting there, waiting at a sturdy wooden table that’s covered in tablets and paper files. Both look up as Fury enter, Steve coming in behind him. Natasha’s face is serene but Hill purses her lips and looks at Steve. “Director?” 

“Agent Hill, read in Captain Rogers,” Fury says, taking one of the empty seats and gesturing for Steve to do the same. “He was getting bored.”

Hill narrows her eyes, but says only, “Yes, sir,” and hands Steve one of the tablets.

“We have limited intelligence on what the Fae are doing right now,” she starts, “but it appears that, in addition to letting some of their monsters off the leash, they’re trying to arm themselves.” She sighs and gestures to the tablet, pointing to the document on the screen. “It’s unclear why, but it seems some of the Fae ‘treasures’ have passed out of their hands.”

Natasha straightens in her chair, lifting her arms above her head in a stretch. “The Fae are long-lived,” she tells Steve, settling back in her chair, “and it appears they can be forgetful.”

Steve nods, using his index finger to scroll through the document in front of him. “In the stories the old folks in my neighborhood used to tell, they sometimes gift something to a mortal and then lose track of it among mortal descendants.” He looks up to see Hill studying him. “It usually doesn’t end well for the descendants, but I think the Fae enjoy that part.”

“Oh,” Hill says slowly. “I forget that you grew up with a lot more stories than we hear today.”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs without humor, “and the moral of the story nearly always was, ‘so never accept presents from the Fae.’”

Fury cocks his head and studies him. “Any pearls of wisdom about werewolves, Captain?”

Steve starts at that, then controls it. He shakes his head. “About the only one that comes to mind is to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Too late for that,” says Hill.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the carwash...

Boston, MA, September 15, 2012

“So, how’s it going?” Bucky adjusts the volume on his earbuds, listening to Steve bang around. “And... what are you doing?”

He hears Steve curse. “I’m taking out the trash. Do you know how many different ways I have to separate it now?” he asks, plaintively. “I mean, okay, things smell better, but I got to say, Buck, the future is not what I expected.”

Bucky laughs. “Can you hear me okay? I’m outside. I’ve got you on the headset.” He leans down and rinses out the sponge before heading back around to the cab of his truck.

“Yeah, I can hear you.” There’s a soft thud that Bucky would bet is newspaper recycling, and then Steve comes back on. “I can hear a dozen other calls going on, too, because everyone walks around outside on the phone. All. The. Time. This sure isn’t the future we were promised in  _ Amazing Stories _ .”

“I think you got your hopes up, pal, reading all those magazines.”

There’s a pause, then Steve says, “You read them too, Bucky.”

The words drop into silence and then Bucky moves on, stretching up to wipe the sponge over the truck’s windshield. “So, what’s going on at work?”

Steve hesitates before he answers and Bucky wonders, not for the first time, what he’s thinking. Was Steve always this hard to read or did it used to be easier? He ends up scrubbing harder than he needs to at a particularly dirty place on the hood, grunting when he finally gets the last of the bird shit off.

“Well, there’s something.” Steve pauses and there’s a long clatter, cans falling into a bin. “It seems like SHIELD’s got a few different divisions of the STRIKE force,” Steve continues. “The ones I’m training with right now are the elite-- they handle everything, but there’s definitely a Fae-specific taskforce with a couple of specially trained STRIKE teams attached. There’s also a separate squad for dealing with non-supernatural threats, like terrorism.”

“Okay.” Bucky steps back from the car, letting the sponge drip from his hand as he thinks that through. “How many teams altogether?”

“At least five, I think. About 6-8 team members. And then regular SHIELD agents of course, who seem to be more like other federal law enforcement.”

Bucky nods, goes back to the bucket to wring out his sponge, then starts on the right side of the truck.

“The thing is, Buck,” Steve says, sounding worried, “the STRIKE team I’ve been training with, they seem stronger than the average human. Faster.”

“Stronger and faster than during the war?” asks Bucky, “Or, stronger than when we sparred last weekend.”

Steve makes a noise that sounds-- interested. Bucky remembers the fight. Steve was trying to go easy on him, because of his left arm, and Bucky took Steve down twice before he’d gotten his head in the game. Bucky swallows and forces himself to focus.

“--finitely stronger and faster than during the war. Not as good as last weekend’s fight.” Bucky hears a wet sound and then Steve takes a breath. He pictures Steve licking his lips. “And, I’m going to beat you next time, Buck.”

“Yeah, sure.” Steve keeps dropping his left, and Bucky wonders what he needs to do to get that lesson to sink in. He clears his throat. “You can try.”

“Could there-- do you think there are any wolves at SHIELD?” Steve asks now, clearly considering. “I know Charles said there are none from the packs, but there are lone wolves, too, right?”

“It’s unlikely.” Bucky straightens, drops the sponge in the bucket of soapy water and heads over for the hose coiled up at the side of the house. “But I’ll ask. They could be Fae-- many of them are stronger than humans. Or...” He thinks back to the first base he and Charles went to, the second. He wonders what the STRIKE team members would smell like, to someone with a sensitive nose.

“Or,” Steve sounds grim, “they could be something else entirely. Something grown in a lab.”

“Yeah.” Bucky closes his eyes. In late July, they’d hit the second lab. This one was also abandoned. And, there was also evidence of Hydra trying to grow chimeras. There were more bodies left in the first lab than the second. “We haven’t found anything to say they’ve been successful yet, but.” He turns back to his truck, hose in hand, to rinse it off. “Who’s to say they haven’t been able to come up with something… different… that can pass for human.”

“Christ,” says Steve.

“And all the angels and saints in His heaven,” agrees Bucky.

They’re both quiet for a minute, Bucky walking around the truck, spraying with the hose to make sure he got all the soap suds off, water splashing and foaming against the truck’s sides.

Finally, Steve takes a deep breath, loud in Bucky’s ear, and asks, “What the hell are you doing anyway?”

“Washing my truck,” Bucky answers, aiming the hose at the right-side windows. “ ‘sa nice day and it was filthy.”

Steve takes another long breath in his ear. All the breathing in his ear is… Okay, it’s hot. Bucky’s trying to be respectful and all that, but still. Bucky has to turn off the hose, jam it under his left arm so he can adjust himself. “You okay, Steve?”

Steve takes a beat before he replies. “I’m fine.” There’s another pause, then Steve clears his throat. “But, I’m back at the apartment, so I gotta go.”

“Okay.” Bucky watches his neighbor turn onto the street, gives a wave as her car rolls by. “Talk soon?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, his voice quiet. “I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

Bucky clicks off his headset. He finishes rinsing the truck and dumps the soapy water out on the lawn. Then he heads inside. His t-shirt is sticking to his skin, a bead of sweat running uncomfortably down his back. His dick is half-hard and, he pulls his phone from his pocket, checks the time, he’s got an hour until he needs to leave for his shift at the gym. He heads for the shower.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Black Widow isn't as good of a wingman as you might expect.

Washington, DC, October 4, 2012

Despite his misgivings about STRIKE, his concerns about their origins, Steve actually enjoys his practice sessions with them. It’s nice to use his body, to hone his combat skills. Plus, they can almost keep up with him in the ring. It’s nice to feel like he’s really getting a workout. The guys are assholes, but Steve recognizes that some of his best friends are also assholes.

Case in point, Natasha. That morning, as soon as he enters the gym, she heads straight towards him. Her hair’s pulled back in a ponytail and there’s a determined look on her face. The look worries him-- he’s seen that look on the faces of a lot of women, and it usually means nothing good for him.

“Rogers,” she calls out. Her face does that thing where she’s barely smiling and yet he can tell she’s laughing at him.

“Whatever it is, Natasha,” he tries, though he can already tell it’s not going to work, “I’m sorry.”

She does laugh then. “Cool it, Rogers, I’m not mad at you.” She’s taping her hands, steadily working the tape around her left hand. “But it’s been a while since I’ve heard about your dating adventures and I need fix.”

Steve groans. “Really? I’m fine. I’m happily single.” She watches him carefully, studying him, and Steve wonders what his face is doing, why he’s an open book to her.

“No, you’re not.” Natasha quirks a half-smile. “You are unhappily single. There’s a difference.” He opens his mouth and she raises her eyebrow. “Don’t bother arguing.”

“Natasha--”

She smiles a little brighter. “There are plenty of ladies here at SHIELD who’d  _ love _ to go out with you. Plus, a lot of them have the clearance to actually talk about the job.”

“Um, that’s not really--” he’s stuttering, he knows it, and his face is probably turning red. “I mean, that’s not the biggest problem that’s come up so far.”

“Yeah,” Natasha shrugs, finishing with the tape and biting off the end. “But it’s got to be easier, right? Making conversation with someone and not having to constantly edit yourself.”

“Well, um, yeah,” he grimaces. “I guess.”

She’s about to continue when Rollins calls over, “Are you just going to stand there gossiping, ladies?” and her face shifts. Steve gives her a look, but follows her over to the mats.

***

Of course, Natasha’s like a bulldog, so after three hours of throwing STRIKE around and an “accidental” elbow to the eye socket for Rollins-- which is going to turn into a gorgeous shiner-- she says, “So, Elena in records.”

“Um.” Steve starts backing away.

“C’mon,” Natasha says, grinning. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

***

At the restaurant, Elena accidentally sets the tablecloth on fire. The second fire, on the way home, seemed a little more deliberate.

“Hmmm,” Natasha says, when he tells her over coffee Monday morning, which seems to be turning into a habit. “I’ll look into it.”

On Thursday, Elena gets busted for arson. Natasha waits less than 24 hours before trying her next set-up. Steve vows to himself, then and there, that he is never letting her meet Bucky Barnes

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Motorcades are the fucking worst.

Boston, October 16, 2012

“Where’d you take this one?” Bucky asks. He’s watching out his office window as a couple of his regulars spar in the ring. There are a few others working the bags and two on machines. For a Tuesday, the gym is full. Business has been good lately.

“We got dinner at this small plates restaurant,” says Steve, and in the background Bucky hears the faint sound of sirens. “And she spent the whole time trying to convert me to atheism.”

Bucky wonders if he heard that right. “Convert you? Is that, can you really convert someone to atheism?”

He hears sirens in the background, growing louder, and Steve raises his voice. “I don’t know, but she sure as hell was trying.”

“You’re pretty famously Catholic, you know.” Bucky turns back to his desk, sighing as he looks at the QuickBooks file open on his computer. Then he holds the phone further away from his ear and speaks up. “There a fire?”

“No.” Steve sounds irritated over the wailing sirens. “Fucking motorcade.”

Bucky laughs, then winces a bit. The sirens must be going by right now, and if it hurts with his hearing, Steve’s got to be in serious pain. It doesn't last long, thank God, and then Steve snarls, “Fucking ridiculous sirens. I might have gone deaf, God damn it.”

“Sorry, pal,” Bucky says, sympathy in his voice. He takes a seat and reluctantly pulls over the stack of invoices.

“About the sirens or the date?” Steve asks, picking up their conversation. “Anyway, apparently I was a challenge. After I cut dinner off short, she still tried to get me into bed with her.”

“What the fuck?” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Seriously, Steve, where do you find these women?”

“Natasha keeps digging them up somewhere.” Steve’s voice is wry. “If she didn’t stop after the arsonist, she’s probably not going to.”

“Tell her to fuck off,” Bucky shrugs. “That’s what I told Alison when she tried to play matchmaker.”

“You're the one who told me to meet people.”

Bucky takes the first invoice off the stack and starts typing. “I didn't say you had to date every woman in the DC metro area, pal. ”

Steve’s quiet for a minute, and Bucky can hear the sounds of the city settling for the night around him. Steve often calls later in the evening. It’s nice, Bucky thinks. Good to hear his voice before he closes up shop and heads to bed.

“I did meet someone, though.” Steve sounds shy when he says it, but pleased. Bucky’s wolf is alert, suddenly, and Bucky’s on his feet and turning to scan the gym floor for a threat as Steve continues. “He saved me from teenage girls with autograph books.”

He? Bucky blinks. Teenage girls? “What?”

“I was too predictable, I guess…”

Bucky can hear the self-deprecating smile in Steve’s voice as he tells a story of being too caught up in his routine to notice the gathering crowd of girls. Bucky should be ragging on him, making fun of how distracted he gets, but he just listens quietly. He feels oddly tense.

“He got me out of there and we ended up going out for breakfast. He’s former military.” Steve pauses and then adds quietly, “It was nice.”

There’s a pit in his stomach, and Bucky’s not exactly sure why. “That kind of inattention can get you killed, Steve.”

“I know. Don’t worry, I’m changing my route.”

Bucky stands up. He walks away from the desk and back again. “So you…” He jams the phone between head and shoulder, makes a circle with his hand. “You’re, uh. Seeing a guy.” He drags his hand through his hair, tugging at it. “That’s, uh--”

“‘That’s, uh,’ what’ Bucky?” Steve comes off a little defensive, a little mocking.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “Not what I expected. I don’t remember you dating guys before the war.”

Steve huffs a laugh. “Of course you don’t.”

“How do you know this guy isn’t Hydra?” Bucky asks.

“Give me some credit.” Steve sounds annoyed now. “Sam is not Hydra.”

“How do you know that?” Bucky is aiming for reasonable, but he’s not sure he gets there. He walks over by the desk again, and glares at the invoices. “Let me check him out for you.”

Steve still sounds annoyed. “I already asked Tony. He checked him against the intel he’s been getting for you, Sam’s clean.” He grunts. “I figured you’d be happy, now I got another guy to watch my back.”

Bucky sets his hand on the desk, leans on it, eyes closed. “You're seeing this guy again?”

Steve pauses, and the sounds of night traffic, light and fast, filter through. And then, thoughtful, Steve answers, “Yeah, I think I am.”

There doesn't seem much more to say after that, and once he hangs up the phone, Bucky sits down in his creaky desk chair and puts his head in his hands.

“Fuck,” he says, eventually. Apparently this version of Steve Rogers has more game than Bucky does. He glances at the clock on his desk, the gym closes in an hour. There’s no way he’s going to be able to concentrate on accounting now. It's a Tuesday and Paradise will be kind of quiet, but damn does he need to get out of his head.

* * *

Boston, MA, November 9, 2012

When Steve walks in the door Friday evening, Bucky can’t help but give him a hug. There are dark circles under Steve’s eyes and hollows in his cheeks. When Bucky hugs him, Steve holds on tight, going limp. It takes longer than Bucky expects to make himself draw back and let go.

“What the hell’s going on?” Bucky asks. He shoos Steve into the living room, and watches him all but collapse onto the couch.

“Just tired,” Steve rubs his hands down his face, then scrubs them back through his hair, before looking up at Bucky. “I been running back-to-back missions the last few weeks-- three days on, two days off. I guess evil never sleeps?”

Bucky watches him for a minute, then gets up and grabs them both beers. When he comes back, Steve’s eyes are closed and he looks half-asleep. Bucky stomps a little harder than he needs to, and Steve startles, opening his eyes too fast.

“You got any idea why this is happening?” Bucky asks.

Steve shakes his head. He takes a sip of his beer, grimaces, then puts the bottle down on the side table. “Some kind of break in intel, I guess.”

He drops his head back against the couch, tipping his throat up and Bucky stares at it, just for a second. He jumps when Steve starts talking again.

“I’ll be thrilled when Fury’s ‘quantum leap in threat assessment’ is finally up and running.” He does the air quotes, which is so incongruous that Bucky grins at him. “They’ve got some kind of computer program or database or something in the works. It’s supposed to improve the intel by leaps and bounds.” Steve sighs and lifts his head to take another drink. “After 70 years, I figured they’d be better at this, but it’s all of the same bullshit we put up with.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, tell me about it.” When Steve tilts his head, he waves at his laptop and the clipboard sitting next to it on the desk. “Every op’s got intel problems, Rogers. You just want to get to the punching.”

***

Bucky gets him to go out on Saturday. They go hang out on the Commons. It's cold but clear, and being around people, being around people  _ unrecognized,  _ people who demand nothing of him, seems to help Steve relax.

By Saturday evening, though, Steve’s back to being a stress case. He’s friendly but distant with Bucky’s kids. While he’s working the heavy bag, Nita asks, “Is he ok?”

Bucky glances over, watches Steve pound the bag like it insulted his mother. “He’s had… a hard couple of weeks.”

Nita nods, holds up her phone. “He showed up in my Google alerts, like, twenty times last week. I think everyone with a smartphone tried to take a selfie with him.”

Maelle looks over, “Did you see the one of him with the puppy? That one was awesome.”

“OMG!” Nita lights up. “It was so tiny and he’s so huuuuge!”

“More working out, less talking,” Bucky growls. “Nita, you and Jummah, hit the judo mats.”

The kids head out at 9:30, like always. After studying Steve for a minute, Bucky decides he’ll get the place ready to close. He’s not sure what’s going on in Steve’s head, but whatever it is, hopefully punching something is helping.

At 10:30, Bucky gives up and starts trying to get Steve’s attention. When Steve finally looks up from the bag, he looks like he’s seen a ghost. He’s sways, looking lost, and Bucky moves wolf-quick in case he has to catch him. “Steve,” he says, quietly. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, trying to smile. “Just lost track of time for a minute.” He looks down, then starts tugging on the tape on his right hand.

“All right, Rogers, let’s go.”

Steve looks up, brow furrowed. “Okay, Buck, fine. Just let me get this tape off.”

“You're thick tonight.” Bucky holds up his own taped hand, grinning. “I mean,” he waves to the ring, “get up here and let’s go. Show me the fancy moves you’re learning from the STRIKE teams.”

Steve stares at him for a minute, eyes darting to Bucky's left arm and up again so quickly Bucky almost misses it. He tries to keep a lid on his annoyance, but the wolf stirs in the back of his mind.

“I don't know, Buck…” Steve tries to equivocate.

Bucky stares him down. “Get your ass in the ring, Steve.” He can hear his voice cracking out across the room, the sergeant voice that he mostly uses on Andrew these days.

Steve clearly recognizes it, body moving almost before his brain catches up. And then it does. “Yes, sergeant,” he says, voice warm and teasing. When Bucky takes a breath he thinks he can smell the edge of lust under the musk of sweat.

Steve climbs into the ring, squaring his shoulders, and Bucky nods at his form. “Show me what you’ve learned, Rogers.” Steve gives another flickering glance down to Bucky's left arm, and Bucky feels the anger rising up, his and the wolf’s. After the last time he kicked Steve’s ass, he thought they were done with this. It gets worse when Bucky deliberately leaves himself open and Steve tries to avoid Bucky's left side anyway. Fuck this. On the next pass, Bucky drops him with prejudice.

“Fuck,” Steve whines when he gets his breath back enough to speak.

“‘S what you get for being delicate, princess.” Steve's face is flushed as he rolls to his feet. “I’ve been taking care of myself a long damn time,” Bucky growls. “I keep telling you, you'd be better off watching your left than mine.”

Bucky managed to split Steve's lip, and now when Steve grins, his teeth are bloody. Bucky represses a shiver, the musky lust-scent intensifying.

“All right, Buck,” Steve says, eyes bright. “Point taken.”

The ensuing fight is fast and brutal, neither scrupling over fighting dirty. Steve's style is still more ‘40s brawler than the modern military hand-to-hand. Whatever the STRIKE team is teaching him, it hasn’t become instinctive yet. Bucky, on the other hand, had skills drilled into him by unforgiving masters and he’s kept up in the meantime. He knows how to integrate new moves and he has a fighting style that takes advantage of his strength and speed, without overly relying on it. Steve is too used to being the fastest and strongest in the room.

“Sloppy, Rogers,” Bucky calls from across the ring, watching Steve hold his ribs. “You can’t use super strength as a substitute for technique. And stop dropping your left.”

“You’re an asshole, Barnes,” Steve answers back, before he squares up again. 

This time, Steve’s using his head. When they trade hits, he manages a tricky move that nearly puts Bucky down. 

Bucky dances back, barely keeping his balance. “Better,” he grunts, before he feints right and, when Steve’s unbalanced, kicks out with his left leg. With Steve on the defensive, Bucky follows up with a series of blows that keep Steve off balance, force him into the corner. Steve manages a counter attack, taking the advantage to slip away, back to the center of the ring, and Bucky is aware, suddenly, of how  _ fun _ this is, back and forth, balance shifting without a deeper sense that dominance is being challenged.

When Bucky finally does take Steve down, he pulls out a neat little combination that uses Steve’s speed against him. Steve ends up flat on his back, breath knocked out of him. He lays there a minute, getting his breath back, chest heaving under too-tight t-shirt. Bucky, looking down at him, can tell he’s hard, can smell the desire rolling off him. It’s easy to reach down with his right arm, grip Steve’s hand and use his strength to pull Steve up-- he rolls up so gracefully. Bucky pulls him up a little bit off balance so Steve crashes into him, so Bucky can drop his hand and catch his shoulder, and--

Bucky stops, half a heartbeat from shifting his grip to Steve’s neck, from leaning in and catching Steve’s lips. It would be easy, so easy, and when he glances up from Steve’s lips to his eyes, it looks like Steve's right there with him.

And then he blinks-- he’s gotta be reading Steve wrong. This isn’t-- it’s not what they do. He steps back out of Steve's space, out of that moment, and says, “We’ll make a fighter out of you yet, Rogers.”

Taking another step back, Bucky scans the room, then slides out of the ring. Throws over his shoulder, “You coming, pal? Let's stop for burgers on the way home, yeah?” Then he makes damn sure not to look at Steve straight on until they’re outside and he’s unlocking the truck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have, in fact, gone on a date with someone who tried to convert me to atheism. While we were trapped in a car. For three hours. In a snowstorm.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good friends and old lovers.

Boston, MA, November 11, 2012 

In the late afternoon. They’re out on Bucky’s patio and Steve’s enjoying the late autumn sun. Bucky’s yard is small but well kept, with an evergreen hedge along the far side. Steve’s sitting on the patio, facing into the yard. The green plastic chair he’s sitting in doesn’t seem the steadiest, and he looks over at the picnic table, wondering if it would be more comfortable. Bucky’s twitchy, pacing, even though Steve can't see a reason why. It’s been a few months since he and Charles went looking for Hydra and neither they nor Steve have found anything new lately. It reminds Steve of the times they were stuck in camp during a full moon, Bucky on edge, temper a knife-edge, and he wonders-- “Full moon tonight, Buck?”

Bucky glances over at him, then appears to visibly force himself to sit down on the picnic table bench. Steve watches as Bucky stays there, holding himself in place, back to the table. “Nah,” Bucky shakes his head. “Just edgy.” He won’t look at Steve. Instead, he looks out at the yard, staring at the fence between his place and the neighbor’s, biting his lip.

Steve can’t help it. His brain flashes to the previous night. Fighting in the ring. Bucky biting his lip and breathing hard when he dragged Steve up. He remembers how close they were, how easy it would have been... It takes a minute for him to register what Bucky’s saying.

“Gabe said you and me,” Bucky’s turned to face him, straddling the bench. He waves his hand between them. “That we, uh--”

Oh. _Oh_ . Steve blinks. Bucky’s actually _bringing it up?_ Leaning back in his chair, he carefully raises an eyebrow at Bucky. “We--?”

Bucky swallows, looking back out to the yard. When he faces Steve again, he’s rubbing his hand on his thigh and he’s eyeing Steve. Steve can’t tell if its curiosity, panic, or some attempt at flirting. “We weren’t _discreet.”_

Suddenly it feels like his face is on fire. Steve has no idea what to say. He’s been here for months now. Months of not talking about this. Bucky sent him on _dates._ He has firmly, definitively, signaled that he’s moved on from whatever the fuck they were doing during the war. Steve feels himself tripping over his tongue when he answers. “Yeah, we uh. I’m not always,” he slumps a little in his chair, dragging a hand over his face, “good at being quiet.”

When he looks up again, Bucky’s watching him, lips pressed together in a line. He looks, uncertain maybe? Steve thinks about what Bucky just asked him. “‘Gabe said?’” His voice cracks a little when he says it. “Did you forget that we--” he mimics Bucky’s gesture.

Bucky won’t meet his eyes. Instead, he looks down at the concrete. When he looks back up, his gaze locks with Steve’s. Steve fights the urge to look away. “It’s been a long, long time, Steve.”

“But, I mean--” Steve just stares at him. He isn’t sure how to read this. Sure, it’s been 70 years for Bucky, but Steve didn’t think that what they’d done had been _that_ forgettable. He stands up and moves over to the picnic table. Carefully sitting across from Bucky, the table top between them. “Yeah, it’s been a long time, I get that. But--” he reaches out to touch Bucky’s forearm, taps it with two fingers. “I just thought--”

Bucky flinches away. “Never mind, it’s not important.” He stands up abruptly. “I need to get a little work done.” He heads for the sliding glass door. “The bookkeeping’s overdue, and I need to take care of it.”

“Do you want…” Steve’s not sure what he’s offering.

Bucky shakes his head. “Stay. Enjoy the sunshine, pal.”

Steve watches the line of Bucky’s back as he walks away, then rubs his hand over his face. Fuck.

* * *

Washington, DC, November 17, 2012 

It’s a quiet weekend morning, too early for the tourists. After their run, they walk north, up to the 7th St. Starbucks, then back down to the mall with their coffees. It’s become habit. Steve likes it.

Steve takes a swallow of his coffee, then sighs. “I'm going to see an old friend.”

Sam takes a sip of his own drink, then lowers his arm and turns to look at Steve.

“Do you--” Steve rubs his right hand on the back of his neck. He can feel the blush coming up, sometimes he hates his fair skin. “Do you think-- Would you come with me?”

Sam’s eyes widen, but he clearly catches himself before his mouth drops open. He nods, and Steve wants to sag in relief. “Yeah man, of course. I just need to know when, let work know.”

Steve doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until he releases it. “I was thinking… next Friday?” He shrugs. “Assuming nothing comes up, obviously.”

“All right man.” Sam punches his shoulder, smiling. “That should be fine.”

***

“Look.” Steve sits up straight, feels like he’s on display even though the cafe they’re in is barely half-full. “I need a favor.”

Natasha looks up from her ramen, eyes crinkling and smirk playing at her lips. “Oh you do, do you. I wondered why you were springing for lunch.”

Steve doesn't smile-- he doesn't have it in him today to manage the give and take gracefully. “I, um. It's important.”

Natasha’s face softens, and her mischievous look fades into a smile. “I figured. I’m just giving you a hard time. What do you need?”

“I need to go out of town,” Steve takes a breath, shoulder blades tightening even more, “and I'd really like not to have a tail.”

She leans back and meets his eyes. “You might want to take that up with Fury. He's pissed you keep taking off without him knowing.”

Steve rests his elbows on the table and leans forward. “I'm not in the army anymore, Natasha, and nothing I read in the SHIELD contract gives him the right to track me.”

She eats a mouthful of noodles, delicately slurps up some of the broth. “What's so important?”

Steve closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he opens them, Natasha’s look is utterly neutral, like she doesn't care what he says. It’s a look she often has on her face. For the first time, Steve realizes that might be a front. He lets out a sigh. “Peggy Carter is in a care facility in Philadelphia. I'd like to go visit her. Without being followed.”

Natasha’s jaw tightens. She takes another mouthful, chewing thoughtfully. “When do you want to go?”

“This Friday.”

She makes a short chopping motion with her hand. “Consider it done.”

Steve tries not to feel surprised. “Just like that?” He leans back a little in his chair.

She smiles up at him, eyes twinkling again. “Just like that.”

“Oh. Well--” He looks down at his half-eaten bowl, hands suddenly too big as he tries to pick up his chopsticks. When he finally gets them in his hand, manages to get them pointing the right way, he looks at her again. “Thanks, Natasha.”

Her smiles softens. “You’re welcome.”

***

For this to work, apparently Steve isn’t allowed to drive. Instead, Steve's slouched in the passenger side of Sam’s car watching the mile markers tick by, the other cars on the road. He trusts that Natasha ran interference so they aren't being followed, but that doesn't mean he can stop glancing from side mirror to rearview to windshield to passenger window and back again.

“Hey.” Sam lifts a hand off the steering wheel, waving it at Steve. “You expecting trouble you didn't tell me about?”

Steve turns and looks at Sam, who’s now checking the rearview mirror. “No,” he grimaces. “Sorry, force of habit.”

Sam glances at him before facing forward again. “Habit? I'm a little worried if you've picked that up. Mostly I see guys after two tours who can't stop checking.”

Shit. Steve makes himself sit up straight, drops his eyes to his lap. “SHIELD likes to keep an eye on me when I go out of town.” He consciously makes himself relax his shoulders, his jaw. He catches Sam frowning when he looks up. “Natasha,” he gestures to his hair, “the redhead, got them to back off today. She’s good at that.”

Sam shakes his head, staring back at the road. “You maybe want to think about why you're working for people who think they can manage you like that.”

“Yeah,” Steve lets himself smile a little, but he can’t stop his voice from edging toward bitter. “I know why. But, uh. Thanks.”

“So, you gonna tell me about this friend we’re going to see?” Sam glances over, brows raised.

“Peggy Carter,” Steve says, and he can feel himself grinning when he says it. For all it's taken him this long to get his shit together and see her, he's excited.

“And who's Peggy Carter?” Sam gives a little eyebrow waggle. But--

“Wait.” Steve turns to face Sam more fully, shoulder pushing against the constraining seatbelt. “You don't know?”

Sam frowns again. “Should I?”

“Uh. Yeah?” Steve narrows his eyes. “I would have thought everyone knew.” The future is so fucking frustrating. “Everyone seems to know that I got turned into a science experiment, they ought to know the woman who made it happen.”

“I thought the doctor was a guy?" Sam risks staring at him for a few seconds. “Ernest or something.”

“Erskine. Yeah,” Steve nods. “But before he got to the US, he was being held hostage by the head of Hydra.” Steve tugs irritably at the seatbelt, which keeps notching tighter. “They really don't teach you this?”

“It's been a while since 10th grade history," Sam shrugs. “I mostly remember science no one could replicate and you liberating a bunch of POWs. In the service, it was mostly about your strategy.”

“Yeah, that.” Steve takes a breath, feels the irritation winding through him. “My strategy? Fucking-- no one seems to remember the Howlies were more than just guys with guns.” Sam slows and shifts lanes, raising an eyebrow. “Bucky was a damn good strategist.” Still is, he thinks. “Monty and I-- we were more more about tactics. Anyway, I'll spare you the rant.”

Sam grins. “Another time, I will be happy to listen to you talk about how history has fucked up the Howling Commandos.”

Steve tugs at the seatbelt again, then goes on. “So, Erskine was trapped by Hydra and the SSR got intel they could trust on where he was. They sent Peggy to get him. She pretended to be a maid to get into the house where they were holding him.” He remembers the night before the serum procedure, the feel of the scratchy army blanket under his hand, the smell of licorice and a glass of clear liquid, the doctor’s accent and dry tone. “He told me she had the broadest Bavarian accent he had ever heard. She came up came up with a dozen escape plans and number four worked. She got them both out and to the extraction point without a scratch.” He laughs, remembering. “When they arrived in England, she let the pilot help them both out of his plane, then laid the asshole out for copping a feel.”

Sam’s laughs along with him. “She sounds like a cool lady.”

“Yeah,” Steve turns back to face front. “Yeah, she is. I was--” he stares out the window, hands clenching on his thighs. “I was trying to get up the courage to ask her on a date. I was gonna ask her to marry me.”

It's quiet in the little car. Steve is staring forward and realizes after a moment that he’s blinking back tears. Eventually, Sam clears his throats and says, “I didn't realize, man. I'm sorry.”

Steve just nods. There's another period of silence, then Sam taps the steering wheel. “Can I ask you a question? House rules.”

Steve catches Sam's eyes in the mirror. House rules are you never have to answer a question if you don't want to, but you do have to _tell_ Sam you don't want to.

At Steve's nod, Sam continues, “I know you been going on dates with women, and now I find out about your friend Peggy. But the day we met, you were definitely hitting on me.” Steve can feel his cheeks heating. “You have a guy, a boyfriend? Before the war. Or during, I guess?”

Steve sucks in a breath, this isn’t something he should have a problem talking about. He nods. “Had a few.”

Sam nods back, taps the steering wheel again. “Any of them serious?”

Steve remembers the feel of Bucky sitting next to him, warm on a cold night, keeping watch. Thinks about how he'd curled around Bucky during their leave in Paris, Bucky asleep while Steve ran fingers up and down his back. It takes two people for something to be serious. “No,” he answers, and wonders a little that he manages to keep his voice even. “We were just making time.”

Sam glances at him, cocking his head. “Making time?”

“Just…” Steve draws out the word, shrugs helplessly. He struggles with this change in slang sometimes. Jim or Gabe would have known exactly what he meant. “Seeing one another, nothing serious. Like, Bucky made time with a lot of girls, but there was never one he'd bring home to his ma.”

“Besides,” Steve swallows hard. “There was nothing for you, if you were an invert, back then. You could have some fun, maybe, that was about it.”

Sam kind of grunts, “Huh.” And Steve doesn't quite still his flinch when Sam's hand lands on his shoulder. “I'm sorry, man.”

“Yeah.” Steve takes a little comfort from the warm hand on his shoulder, before Sam has to put it back on the steering wheel. He leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. Thinks about what he might have done if Bucky'd given him any indication they were doing more than having a good time. He winces. Bucky made time with a lot of girls, and him. It was never serious. He's never forgotten that before, never let himself imagine what it would have been like if Bucky had been serious. There was no future in it.

***

In the file Fury gave him, there were two pictures of Peggy. One is her service photo from the war. It's in black and white, but his mind fills in the colors-- the blue of her eyes, her dark hair, lips red from the lipstick she was never without.

In the second one, she was much older. The photo was in color, and given the way she was posed, he suspects it’s also an official portrait. In it, her hair is mostly grey, but there’s still a hint of the brown curls. Her skin is wrinkled-- frown lines on her forehead, laugh lines around her eyes-- and it’s hard to tell if she’s wearing lipstick at all. For all of that, the photo still shows, in the ways that matter, the woman he fell in love with.

The woman lying on the hospital bed wears no makeup and her skin is deeply wrinkled. Her hair is nearly white and, for a few moments, Steve struggles to make sense of who this woman is. He wants to turn around and demand that they take him to see _Peggy,_ it's so obvious to him that this must be the wrong room.

And then she opens her eyes and spots him. “Well don't just stand there gaping like an idiot,” she commands, “come over here and let me get a look at you.” The voice is pure Agent Carter, like she'd get when the Howlies were clowning around. Steve’s knees are shaking but that voice puts steel in his spine and he's walking toward her before he really knows what he's doing.

“Hi, Peggy.” He makes his voice soft, proud when he manages not to waver. “How's my best girl?”

She stares at him, pursing her lips. “They told me you've come back.” Then she gets a twinkle in her eyes. “Well, they've probably told me several times since I can't seem to remember much these days, but they did tell me yesterday and this morning.”

Steve watches as her eyes get bright, as she blinks rapidly. She reaches out to take his hand. “Oh, Steve. It's so very, very good to see you.”

Steve has to the push words out around the lump in his throat, but his answer is just as heartfelt. “I'm sorry I’m so late. I came to cash in my raincheck.”

“I don't know, Steven.” She shakes her head, lips pursed and eyes smiling. “Mother always said not to encourage a young man who wasn't properly attentive.” And then her mirth collapses and the tears are spilling over. “Oh, Steve, it's been such a long time.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hydra's making moves, and so is Bran.

Boston, November 23, 2012 

On Friday, Isaac activates the Pack’s emergency phone tree.

“This is a test,” he growls when Bucky answers his phone. “We need to make sure our systems are working at all times.” Bucky thinks he sounds tense, wonders where this is coming from. “I want to see what our response time is.”

Bucky runs his fingers through his hair. “Okay, Isaac. I’ll start calling. But it’s Thanksgiving weekend, you know there’s, what, at least seven, eight people out of town?”

“Every single Pack member has a cell phone,” Isaac snaps. “They can’t answer their mobiles, then there’s a real problem.” He hangs up without another word, and Bucky rests his head in his hand, before he straightens up and starts going through his contacts.

***

Full moon’s on Wednesday, but Isaac calls a Pack meeting on Sunday evening. By the time Bucky enters the room, five minutes before the meeting’s supposed to start, the mood is pretty sour. It gets worse when Isaac doesn’t show up for another 30 minutes, pack members trading stories of rushing home from holiday plans or cutting short a relaxing weekend to get here on time.

They're using the rec room at the Pack house. People are sprawled in uncomfortable folding chairs set out in rows. He heads to the front, where Alison's sitting and chatting with Noah. He hugs her, nods hello to Noah, then shakes Bill's hand and sits beside him. Andrew, Nita, and Jummah are huddled together on one of the couches that’s been pushed against the walls, whispering to one another. Maelle’s been excused on account of her mother still not knowing about the wolves. Bucky knows that's going to explode in their faces at some point, but Isaac's not pushing the issue just yet.

When Isaac enters, his movements are stiff and jerky, like he's still trying to get a hold of his wolf. Bucky's wolf rises closer to the surface in response. The whole room goes silent, most people looking down as Isaac rakes his eyes over the crowd.

“Thanks for coming, everyone.” Isaac looks around at the unhappy faces and grimaces. “I hope you all had a good holiday.”

Bill leans forward in his chair. “What’s the word, boss?”

Bucky leans forward as well, can see others mirroring him, as Isaac gazes out at the nearly thirty wolves gathered in the room, all waiting on him.

“The Alpha of the Columbia Basin Pack, Adam Hauptman, and about 20 of his wolves, were kidnapped on Thanksgiving night.”

The room explodes into sound for a minute, exclamations and cursing, and some wolves trying to shush others. Adam Hauptman’s well-known-- he's the Marrok’s go-to publicity werewolf. He's been on a lot of news programs and interacts with various federal and state authorities. He's always seemed to Bucky to be respected by those who meet him, even if they don’t like him. Bucky's watched him on “Meet the Press,” and some of the other morning shows. Even facing down guests who think werewolves are an abomination, he keeps his cool. And, okay, he also looks good doing it. Bucky has _eyes_ , okay?

Bucky keeps his face blank and watches Isaac. He knows the kids are looking to him as an example. Under the surface, though, he feels his mind racing. Who wants to kidnap someone who is, arguably, the most famous werewolf in the U.S.? Kidnap him _and his pack_ . Anyone who knows enough to figure out _how_ to do that would have to know what a pack means to an Alpha. The drive to protect, the need to keep his people safe... ‘They're leverage,’ he thinks. ‘Hostages to get Hauptman to do what they want.’

Bucky's met Adam Hauptman and a few members of his pack-- Bran has periodic meetings with alphas and their higher ranked members. If he was a human, civvie or military, he wouldn't want to tangle with Hauptman’s Pack, and he certainly wouldn't want to have to keep a group of wolves locked down someplace. To do it you'd need space, a lot of firepower-- Bucky glances over at Alison, and she mouths ‘Holy fucking shit,’ and shakes her head at him.

Isaac raises his arms and the room slowly quiets down. “I spoke with Bran. He told me they escaped and their kidnappers are dead or disappeared.”

“Any casualties?” someone calls from the back.

Isaac’s lips twist. “Peter Jorgenson.”

Bill’s quiet “God damn it” is echoed by a couple of other people, and a number of heads bow. Jummah murmurs in Arabic, something that has the rhythms of a prayer. Jorgenson was an old wolf, well-liked. Bucky’s heard about him, though they never met.

Karolina’s voice cuts angrily through the room. “Was it the Fae? Did they kill Peter?” A gabble of voices rise up in response, throwing out possibilities, until Isaac slices his hand through the air, cutting off discussion.

“It wasn't the Fae,” he says, holding up his hands. “Or witches, Noah, it's not always witches.”

That gets a little bit of laughter. Noah always blames the witches.

Bucky waits until the amusement dies down, then calmly asks the logical questions. “So who were they and what did they want? No one kidnaps a pack for anything good.”

He has a bad feeling he knows the answer, and when Isaac responds by getting quiet, he knows this is going to be rough. Over the years, since Isaac became Alpha, they’ve had a few different crises. Isaac’s usual reaction is loud. He shouts, he paces, he waves his arms. He’s dramatic, which isn’t Bucky’s style, but it’s something he’s grown used to. A quiet Isaac is out of his depth, and that’s not a good place for an Alpha to be. 

Beside Bucky, Bill tenses as well. Shit.

Isaac sighs and stands straighter. “As far as we know? Rogue government agents.” He shakes his head. “They had the assistance of a team of mercenaries. Good ones”

It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and the acrid smell of fear starts to fill the room.

Isaac goes on, clearly wants to get the whole story out now. “The Alpha’s wife, Mercedes Hauptman, reached out to local law enforcement, and got the FBI involved as well.” Isaac smiles grimly. “The Feds have made it clear this was an unsanctioned action and the local police were on the pack’s side. The Marrok is reaching out to our government contacts.” Isaac crosses his arms across his chest. “He is doing everything he can to make sure that this never happens again.”

The room is quiet for a little bit, and then Andrew speaks up. His voice is quiet at first, he rarely says much at these things, but it gets stronger as he goes. “I mean, but how did they even manage it? Like, how do you subdue twenty werewolves working together and then _take them away_? Where do you hold twenty pissed off werewolves? I thought drugs don't work on us?”

All good questions, and Bucky smiles slightly. Andrew's still not a great fighter, still trips over himself two times out of seven, but he sure as hell knows how to use his brain.

Isaac tells them about some super-drug for werewolves-- horse tranqs and silver nitrate, which, combined, can slow werewolf metabolisms for a while. Bucky's heard about it, some werewolf was stupid enough to come up with it. He shouldn't be surprised the government weaponized it, but he makes a mental note to talk to Steve about it. And to see what SHIELD might have access to. By the time Isaac’s done, fear-smell is dominant in the room, and everyone's on edge.

“Look,” Isaac says, taking a deep breath. “I know this isn't good. _Bran_ knows this isn't good. I've reached out to local law enforcement here in Boston and Cambridge, and they have _no interest_ in getting in some sort of government power play. That said,” He shakes his head, shrugs. “I'm a Black man and I'm well aware that we can't depend on the police to save us.” There's some muttering at that, and Bucky and Bill look around the room, catching the eyes of a few wolves, making them drop their gaze.

“Which is why,” Isaac says, raising his voice, “we’re going to start doing more drills as a pack. Emergency contact stuff, like this past weekend, regular check-ins, practicing what happens if someone is stupid enough to attack this pack head on.” He looks out across the assembled members. “We’re strong, but the Columbia Basin pack is strong too and they got caught. The more we practice, the better off we’ll be.”

Pack members are nodding, agreeing. Bucky hears Alison murmur, “Yeah, good.” Noah agrees with her. Bucky looks up at Isaac and raises his eyebrows. At Isaac's nod, he stands up.

“Anyone who feels the need for some extra practice or wants to improve their hand-to-hand, you're always welcome. Nita, Jummah, and Andrew can attest to my teaching skills.” A ripple of laughter goes around the room. “I always keep the gym closed to the public on Saturday afternoons, but I can figure out some other times as well.”

There are some nods, and Isaac speaks up. “I expect everyone to take James up on this.” He turns back to Bucky. “The pack can pay to rent out the gym a couple of nights a week, so make a schedule and we’ll get everyone on it.”

Bucky nods and sits back down.

There are a few more discussion points, a couple of more pieces of business, but the meeting ends soon after. Bucky hugs Alison goodbye and speaks with the kids, before Isaac gestures for him and Bill to come to the office. By the time Bucky leaves, he’s got a whole new job helping Bill and a couple of the other wolves with military experience design attack scenarios and the werewolf equivalent of war games.

* * *

Boston, MA and Washington, DC, November 27, 2012 

“Hang on a minute.”

Steve's voice is curt. Bucky figures why when he hears Steve tell someone, “It's Stark, I've gotta take this.”

“Hello, Tony!” shouts a female voice, obnoxiously loud. Then there are muffled noises, what sounds like Steve moving through a crowd. It sounds like he's out at a bar or a club, someplace with music and too many people drinking.

Bucky slumps back on his couch and grins a little. When Steve says hi again Bucky lets the grin seep into his voice. “I catch you out _having fun_ , Steve? Portrait of Captain America on his night off?”

“Fuck you, asshole, I have fun.” Steve sounds annoyed, and Bucky can’t help but laugh. “What's going on?”

Bucky lets the laughter trail off into a sigh, rubs his hand through his hair. He's done it enough tonight he bets his hair’s standing up on end. “Someone thought it was a good idea to kidnap a werewolf pack.”

He can hear Steve’s snort. “Fucking morons.”

Steve's voice is flat, hard, and Bucky rolls his head against the back of the couch, pressing the phone to his ear. “You don't sound surprised.”

Steve sighs. “Yeah, that's because it's the first thing we heard about after we debriefed this afternoon.”

“Really?” Bucky winces. His voice sounds higher than he expected it too. But, seriously?

“Yeah.” Steve is using his ‘can you believe this shit’ voice. “Agent leading the debrief made it clear that a) SHIELD wasn't involved, b) it was fucking stupid, and c) official agency position is it was fucking stupid and we try not to be _that_ stupid on a regular basis.”

Bucky gives a sharp laugh. “That's a pretty clear position.”

“I think he was affronted anyone would think we would fuck it up like that.” Steve sighs. Bucky hears the sound of footsteps on concrete and then cloth scraping against a wall. “Situation normal...”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “Might’ve been worse, but--”

Steve waits a beat. “But?” he asks gently.

“The Alpha’s wife--” he scrubs his hand over his face, thinking about what he can say. “She had some connections, made things happen fast.” He doesn't say, ‘She could manipulate their mate bond into doing weird metaphysical shit,’ because, for one, humans didn't know about mate bonds and two, he isn’t even sure how to begin to talk about that shit with Steve.

“Sounds like that's a good thing.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah, it is. Anyway, can you find out if SHIELD has these werewolf weapons? They used--”

“We do.”

It's faster than Bucky expected and it throws him off guard. “What?”

“Yeah,” Steve takes a deep breath. “The debrief was pretty clear. SHIELD _could_ have done this, it’s just that we _didn't._ ”

Bucky closes his eyes. He takes a breath, opens his mouth to say something, but he's not even sure what to say.

“I know, okay? I _know._ ” Steve's voice is rough. “I'm not happy about it, but I'd rather know. I'd rather _you_ know.” Bucky hears Steve takes another breath, then he adds, “And, I'd also rather you know that the objection I heard most wasn't ‘they're American citizens, it’s horribly illegal.’ No, the objection was ‘if we _were_ going to go after a werewolf pack, we’d make damn sure we had an iron-clad warrant and about 50 more guys.’”

Bucky stays quiet, processing that.

“And Buck,” Steve's voice has gone low, talking soft enough that Bucky strains to hear him, “this was everyone. They think like soldiers, not like cops, but it wasn't--” he breaks off, and Bucky can hear the sounds of skin dragging across skin. “None of them were phased... Bran, Charles, whoever. They _should_ be worried.”

Bucky rubs his hand over his face. “Well, fuck.” He closes his eyes, and all he can picture is a squad of men in black bursting into his house, guns drawn and Jummah in their sites. “I have to design some scenarios for the pack to practice reacting to. I’d, uh, appreciate your help next time you come up.”

“Of course.” Steve’s quiet enough that Bucky can hear another conversation going on near him. Then Steve’s voice comes back on the line, a little louder. “I gotta go back inside or Natasha will come looking. Sorry.” He sighs. “I’ll find out what I can about weapons rated for werewolves.” And then, so quiet Bucky almost misses it, “Stay safe.”

* * *

Boston, MA, December 7, 2012 

Bucky’s just hopping out of the truck when his phone rings. For once, his hand isn’t full and he can answer, “Hello.”

“What does your friend know about Nick Fury.” It’s Bran, who’s apparently impersonating Charles today, and not bothering with greetings or casual politeness.

Bucky rakes his fingers through his hair, and heads to the porch, putting his phone on speaker and dropping it in his shirt pocket, then pulling out his keys as he answers. “Steve seems to respect Fury, but I think he pushes Steve’s buttons a lot.”

“Does he think Fury is trustworthy? “

Bucky considers. “I think it depends on the context.”

“Through channels,” Bran pauses, blows out a breath. “I have received an invitation to meet with Nick Fury about a potential agreement between the US Government and the werewolves. After last month’s debacle, we have some leverage and I’d like to make the most of it”

Bucky thinks about how much his pack members need to know someone’s trying to calm tensions. “Okay, in that case, I’d like to talk to Steve”

Bran is quiet for a minute. “Do you trust your friend, James?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, without hesitation.

“We’re hearing rumors.” Bran’s voice is sardonic.

“Rumors?” Bucky considers. “I take it these are the kind of rumors that are pretty much guaranteed to be true.”

“The rumors have reliable sources, yes.” Bran’s voice is calm, measured. “A few Senators plan to introduce a bill to add werewolves to the Endangered Species Act. It has bipartisan support.”

“Really? ‘Endangered species?’” Bucky resists the urge to bang his head against the wall. “So they think we’re nothing but animals?”

Bran is quiet, contained. “I've only shared this with some of the Alphas. Obviously, it is a big concern.” Bucky nods at that. He heads into the kitchen to get a glass of water. “Many of us remember what registration has meant in other times and places. We’ve all seen what happened to the Fae. The idea of being branded as animals, by law, has serious implications.”

Bucky takes a sip of his water and leans against the counter. “Frankly speaking, sir, a lot of the Boston pack is worried about the political situation. Things are tense. The young ones in particular are scared and on edge.”

“A scared werewolf is no safe thing.” Bran hums. “ I’m inclined to meet with Fury, but I’d like to know how far to trust him. My sources say he has the ear of a member of the World Security Council. But, whether that can sway the mood of our Congress, or the White House…”

“I’ll ask,” says Bucky. “Steve wants peace as much as anyone.”

“Thank you, James.”

***

It’s Friday night but Bucky’s still surprised when it takes a few tries to reach Steve.

“Hey,” Steve says, when he finally answers. Bucky can hear voices in the background, the clinking of silverware. “Can I call you back?”

Sudden jealousy rips through Bucky, fast enough to take his breath for a moment. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, trying to calm the wolf, which is furious and scared. There are so many reasons Steve could be out at a restaurant, and this isn’t a conversation he should have in public anyway, but Bucky can’t help but demand, “Are you on a date?”

The few seconds it takes Steve to respond tie his stomach in knots. “I’m out with Sam,” says Steve, sounding annoyed.

Bucky’s wolf growls. Bucky forces himself to take a deep breath and try to sound calm, “Call me back when you’re free, please. It’s urgent.”

“Are the kids okay?” Steve sounds worried, and a wave of affection washes over Bucky.

“They’re fine. It’s something else and it’s important, so-- tonight if possible.”

He hears Steve sigh in relief, then say, “Okay, Phelan, will do.” Then he hangs up.

Bucky glances up, looking into the mirror in his hallway. He can see yellow eyes looking back. Says out loud, “I’m calling you on your bullshit, James,” and bares his teeth at the wolf looking back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter references events from "Frost Burned" by Patricia Briggs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul food and modern art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up directly after the previous chapter.

Washington, DC, December 7, 2012

“Everything okay?” Sam asks, when Steve gets back to the table.

Steve puts his phone down beside his plate gingerly, half-expecting it to ring again. “I’m not entirely sure.”

“Do you need to go?” Sam’s calm and non-judgmental. It makes Steve wish, not for the first time, that Sam had been on the same page when Steve had first asked him out.

Steve shakes his head. “No, he said it wasn’t urgent.” Then, fiddling with his fork, he says more slowly, “Well, he did and he didn’t.”

Sam raises his eyebrows. “This that friend of yours? The vet?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, takes a look at the pasta on his plate and picks it up to take a bite. He’s surprised when it tastes good.

He manages to devour half the bowl before he looks up again. When he does, Sam’s smiling at him and shaking his head. “It’s like no one feeds you.”

“Well, you know.” Steve grins. “I got a _high_ _metabolism_.”

Sam groans, rolling his eyes. “I should never have let you watch those movies.”

“As I recall,” says Steve, laughing, “You’re the one who made me watch them so I understood ’the role of the car in modern American life.’”

He does the air quotes and everything, and laughs as Sam just about busts a gut.

On their way out to the parking lot, Sam says, “I know you deliberately distracted me. You gotta bail on movie night, don’t you?”

Steve sighs, “Yeah. Whatever it is, it’s important.”

“I figured,” says Sam. “You running tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you down by the reflecting pool.” Steve grins, “And by the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson—“

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam gives his shoulder a smack. “Enjoy your half marathon, Steve.”

***

Steve paces back and forth in front of the couch in Fury’s office. Fury’s just leaning against his desk, damned unreadable expression on his face like always. Sometimes Steve wants to wipe it off, make him show  _ some  _ kind of emotion. “People are scared, Director!”

“You think I don’t know that, Captain?” Fury smirks, looking Steve up and down. “I am well aware that this talk about rounding up werewolves, about changing their legal status is playing on the fears of ordinary Americans.”

“No,” Steve shakes his head, turning to face him. “I meant,” Steve falls easily into parade rest, forcing his hands to lay open at his sides, “that werewolves are scared.”

Fury raises his eyebrows. Steve sees his hands closing tighter on the wood of his desk. “Do you have ties to the werewolf community that I’m not aware of, Rogers?”

Steve manages a thin smile. “I didn’t know there was  _ anything _ you weren’t aware of, Director. Given the bugs you keep leaving in my apartment.”

Fury doesn’t bother to deny it. “You’re something of a mystery, Captain. And I don’t like mysteries.”

“Unless you’re the one holding all the clues, right, Nick?”

The room is quiet for a minute, then Fury says, “Look, this bill is a boneheaded move by a few asshole Senators who faced tough elections.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Fucking politics.” He walks over to the window, looks out for a minute before turning back to Steve. “This kind of thing plays well with a scared public. No one’s thinking about the unintended consequences because they don’t know how deeply integrated werewolves are in our society.”

Steve’s surprised to see how tired Fury suddenly looks-- usually he can't tell anything about the man's state of mind. He walks over to join him by the windows. “Deeply integrated?”

Fury turns to look at him. “Captain, it’s an open secret at the highest level of the military just how many of our best forces are werewolves.” He watches Steve for a minute, and Steve lets his eyes go wide. “Hell, I think most of the Delta Force are wolves.” 

Fury glances back out the window again before pinning Steve with another look. “Apparently they do well in ‘hierarchical structures.’” His glance is searching and Steve is conscious of how easy he is to read usually. “You really think any of our generals want to discharge decorated fighting men because they’re ‘endangered’?”

“No,” Steve studies him carefully, then says with his blandest voice, “but I do wonder how many of them would like to see werewolves classified as weapons and materiel.”

Fury’s mouth drops open for a second before he shuts it with a click. It might be the first unguarded emotion Steve's seen on the man's face. “Jesus, Rogers, is that what you think?”

Steve tries to stay stone-faced, tries not to sound angry. “I was in a war, Director. I know just how far some people will go when they think they can get away with it.”

***

“Captain,” says Fury, stopping in the door of Steve’s office. He glances up from where he's been staring resentfully at his computer and wondering why future people haven't managed to eliminate the need for paperwork. “Change of plans. You’re with me.” And then he just walks out, expecting Steve to follow.

Steve stares at Fury’s rapidly retreating back, then down at the half-drunk cup of crappy cafeteria coffee on his desk, and gets up to follow.

***

Once they’re in the black SUV, doors heavy with armor plating, Fury weaves the big car through the mid-morning traffic. Steve turns in the passenger seat and asks, “Are you going to tell me where we’re going, Director?”

Fury glances over, then smoothly changes lanes.

“Last night, I was invited to a meeting with two people who I am assured are pretty senior in the werewolf hierarchy.”

Steve blinks.

Fury glances in the rearview, crosses three lanes quickly, then slows down. He continues, “I know you and I disagree on quite a number of issues, Captain, but I’d like you to listen in during the meeting and then give me your opinion.”

Steve considers this for a moment, frowning. “Why me and not Natasha?” He cocks his head. “Or Hill?”

“Hill has other responsibilities right now.” Fury sighs, sounding put upon. “While I would like Natasha’s opinion, I understand that werewolves can smell lies. She's good,” by which Steve understands he means practically supernatural herself, “and maybe she wouldn't get caught, but we can’t afford to cause offense right now.”

Steve feels a smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve heard the same thing about lies. Natasha and werewolves…” he thinks again about Natasha meeting Bucky, and then decides to put that off for as long as possible. “And what about you, Director?”

Fury gives a short laugh. “Calling me a liar, Captain? I think I’ll be fine. If nothing else, Natasha tells me you can’t lie to save your life.”

Steve shakes his head, “So I’ve been told, Director. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

***

They’re greeted pleasantly at the door of a well-known soul-food restaurant in Anacostia. The waitress, a dark-skinned black woman with close cropped hair, takes them to a private room in the back. As they walk through the sparse lunch crowd, Steve catches a couple of the patrons casually scenting the newcomers, heads cocked in the way he's seen Bucky and his trainees use sometimes. The ones he notices, maybe three or four, are far more subtle than the kids. If he didn't know Bucky so well, he's not sure he would've caught it.

The waitress ushers them into a private room where two men are standing, their backs not quite to the door as they study a large abstract painting on the wall. Steve feels the pull of the art-- swirling streaks of green and blue-- before his eyes are drawn to the men. The first is an inch or so taller than Steve, skin a russet brown. Steve thinks it’s a little odd to see a man with such long hair, but he stands like he can handle himself. His companion is smaller, under six feet, a slim white man with sandy hair and forgettable features. They both turn, and, for a moment, Steve thinks he can see some resemblance between them, but then he blinks and it’s gone.

“Gentlemen,” says Fury smoothly, stepping forward with a dramatic rustle of his black duster. “I’m Nick and this is my friend, Steve.”

“Charles,” says the big man laconically, and Steve has to work hard not to stare-- he knows that voice.

“And I am Bran,” his companion says in a lightly accented voice. “Thank you for meeting us.”

There’s a quick knock on the door. The same woman who’d escorted them in enters carrying a tray covered in plates of food. She’s followed by two men, also carrying trays.The three of them set the the food down on one of the long tables at the head of the room. Steve can see spare ribs and fried chicken, greens and potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and pork chops with stewed apples. She gestures to the plates and silverware that have been set out on a smaller, circular table and says, “Enjoy, gentlemen. Holler if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Desiree,” Bran says, as she and her helpers head out. When they close the door again, Steve is aware of a substantial drop in ambient noise. He’s guessing the room is soundproof.

“Please,” Bran smiles and waves to the piles of food. “Help yourselves. Desiree’s grandmother still rules this place with an iron fist. She'll be disappointed if we don’t do her meal justice.”

The food is delicious, and even though Steve suspects Fury is impatient for the discussion, he watches the man pile his plate high and dig in. Steve, a little bemused, follows his lead. He can't help groaning indecently after he swallows his first mouthful of pork chop and stewed apples. He'd be embarrassed, but Bran just grins, surprisingly boyish, and starts stuffing his own face.

They're mostly silent for a time, eating their first helping of food. After Nick sits down with second serving, however, and Steve follows with more ribs, Bran sits back. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, and says, “Well, Nick, what would you like to discuss.”

Fury swallows and puts down his fork. “I understand that the werewolves are concerned about Senator Stern’s proposal to add werewolves to the ESA.”

Bran nods. “We are.”

“I’ve discussed the situation with several colleagues in the military.” Fury shakes his head. “I want to be clear. We agree that this is a boneheaded and reactionary move. It’s not something any of us support.”

Charles turns toward Steve. “And you, Steve? Do you represent military interests in this meeting?”

Steve, mouth full of food, quickly swallows. “I didn’t know where I was going until we were halfway here. I don’t represent the military, or any official body. But,” he shakes his head, “I think this proposal stinks and I’d like to keep it from going any further.”

Charles barely changes expression, but Steve has the impression that he’s smiling.

Bran shrugs. “I’m glad we all agree, but I’m not sure how much that matters right now. My sources tell me that Senator Stern has decided to wait until Congress reconvenes next month, when he's more likely to have the votes to override a presidential veto.”

Fury takes another mouthful and chews thoughtfully. “There’ve been concerns that the werewolves are considering an alliance with the Fae.” He pauses to take a bite of spare rib. “Obviously, the government would be... unhappy with that sort of move.”

Across the table, Bran and Charles exchange a glance. “Officially,” Bran says, “we are neutral in this conflict.”

“And unofficially?” asks Fury.

Bran smiles slightly. “We have no interest in taking part in someone else’s fight. Humans are important to us-- our packs include the human families of our wolves, and no one wants to see them hurt.”

Fury looks a little surprised, but Steve nods. “Family’s important to us all. I suspect the public doesn’t realize how connected the werewolves are to human society. It’s something you could emphasize in your publicity campaigns.”

Bran nods thoughtfully. “You’re right, Steve. Though, right now, few are willing to speak up because of the stigma.”

Fury raises his eyebrows. “I thought that werewolves were hierarchical.”

Steve gives him a look. “You regularly give orders to your agents that you know they'll refuse to obey?”

Charles is faintly smiling. “Our packs aren't democracies, but Steve's right. A good leader knows when his troops will mutiny.”

The conversation continues after that, though it seems clear to Steve that its main purpose is for each party to take stock of the other, and the most important information has been conveyed by both sides. Though Fury seems a little surprised that they have so much in common.

At the end of the meal, Fury says, “Can your people give us some sign of neutrality? That would go a long way toward pushing back on this legislation.”

Bran tilts his head to the side and Steve, who’s been studying him, suddenly finds himself dropping his gaze. There’s a predator looking out at him, far older and more cunning than Bucky’s wolf.

And then Bran blinks and smiles blandly. “Let me see what we can do, Nick.”

Fury gives a thin smile in return. “While you do that, I’ll work on my end.”

***

They’re a few miles down the highway, Fury seemingly relaxed in the driver's seat, though his eyes dart regularly from windshield to rear view mirror to side mirror and back. “Well, Captain? What’s your assessment?”

Steve looks over at him, then back to the road. “They’re not telling us everything.”

Fury snorts. “And water is wet and bears shit in the woods.” He changes lanes, calm and controlled, then asks. “You want to tell me what the hell that was about, Captain, giving them PR advice?”

“It just seems like them getting good PR helps us too.” Steve shrugs, leaning back into the seat. 

Fury glances at him, then turns his eyes back to the road. “Well, it’s true. You really are a terrible liar.”


	14. Chapter 14

Boston, MA, March 8, 2013 

“I think we need a third person to accompany us,” Charles says, face grim in the Skype window on Bucky’s laptop. “As far as I can tell from the plans your friend sent, this facility is much larger-- too large for the two of us to search on our own in the amount of time we are likely to have.” He looks at something off-screen, then turns back to Bucky. “This facility is also likely to have more guards. We need to bring another fighter.”

Bucky is pacing. He knows he’s moving in and out of view of the camera, but he can’t sit still. They’ve found some good information at the Hydra bases they’ve hit, but nothing’s _quite_ adding up. This one could be the key. “Who did you have in mind?”

Charles cocks his head. “Your Captain would be a good choice.”

“What?” Bucky whirls to face the screen. “You can’t be serious!”

“Bran was impressed when we met him, ” Charles says mildly. “I’ve been studying the footage from the Battle of New York-- he’s a good fighter, and you’ve said he has a good head on his shoulders.”

“Yeah,” Bucky stands still, watching Charles’ face carefully. “Steve’s a good fighter, sure. But he’s still a SHIELD agent right now. And too noticeable by half.”

Charles makes a non-committal sound. “With the right changes to his appearance--hair dye, maybe, and without that blue suit…”

“Try to change the appearance, all you want,” Bucky interrupts, talking over him, “but he’s still Captain America. He used to burst into Hydra bases through the front door. Riding his motorcycle, even.”

Charles taps his fingers on the desk. “So, the Captain is still off limits.”

“Yes.” Bucky narrows his eyes, stares at the screen, trying to stare Charles down. In the background he can hear Anna muttering, but her voice isn’t loud enough for him to catch the words.

“All right,” Charles leans back, looks up at the ceiling. “Well--”

“What about Asil?” Anna pops up right behind Charles, making Bucky jump.

Charles’s voice gets lower and he rumbles, “Asil?”

“Stop that,” Anna says, tossing him an amused look. “Yes, Asil.”

They stare at each other and it makes Bucky uncomfortable. Just because Anna can hold anyone’s gaze doesn’t mean it isn’t awkward as hell for the people watching. Bucky’s wolf gives an internal snort, sends him a picture of Steve staring at him. Bucky shakes his head, irritated, to get rid of the image.

“Asil…” Charles draws out the man’s name, gives it a slightly different pronunciation, and Bucky stiffens.

“Wait a minute--” he starts.

Anna says, “I’m sure he’s free.”

“--you want us to bring _The Moor_ _?”_

Charles and Anna turn to look at him, and Bucky runs his hand through his hair.

A smile tugs at Anna’s mouth as she faces the computer. “Asil is smart, vicious, ruthless.”

“Yeah,” Bucky stares at her. “I’ve heard. I’m not sure anyone who’s been with a wolf pack for a couple of years _hasn’t_ heard about The Moor.”

“He lives up to the tales.” Charles’ voice is droll.

Anna rolls her eyes at them. “He’s also bored.” She puts her right hand on her hip, and leans into Charles to get closer to the screen. “He needs something to do.”

“He has his roses,” Charles shrugs. Bucky raises his eyebrows at that, and Charles smiles a little, well, wolfishly. “He has a greenhouse.” He turns back to his wife. “And there’s Sage.”

Anna shakes her head. “He’s being an idiot about her.”

Bucky tries to get the conversation back on track. “I heard he’s-- old.” Anna and Charles turn as one and watch him patiently. He rests his elbow on the back of his desk chair, leaning in and fixing his eyes on the camera. “All right, I heard he’s unstable and that he could lose it at any time.”

On the screen, Charles’ face nods. “It’s true. His wolf craves violence a little too much.” He looks back over at Anna, who’s biting her lip. Charles cocks his head, then starts to smile at her. “But he’s a canny old wolf and he can smell a trap. Well, when it’s not personal.” He turns back to Bucky. “Against Hydra? I think he’ll be an asset.”

“All right,” Bucky throws up his arms. “Fine, we travel with Asil.” He looks at Charles. “Wednesday? Steve’s supposed to come up for the weekend.”

“Wednesday,” Charles says with satisfaction. “We’ll meet you there.”

* * *

_Classified location,_  March 14, 2013 

“You said this place was abandoned?” Asil asks quietly.

Asil’s smaller than Bucky expected-- slim and compact, several inches under six feet. His skin is the color of teak, and it looks oddly sallow under the base’s emergency lighting. He keeps testing the air, and Bucky can tell he thinks something's off. This place is eerie, a step further into nightmare-territory than the previous bases, which had, for the most part, seemed like sterile science facilities. This one has an air of an abandoned military base. Although, if Charles and Tony are right, it has been in use longer and more recently than some of the other places they’ve visited.

Bucky’s had a bad feeling since they arrived-- his wolf’s on edge, and something about the place tugs on a memory he can’t access. That Asil is feeling some of that makes him more inclined to trust the old wolf.

“Yes, according to everything we could find,” Charles confirms, alert and moving lightly on the balls of his feet. “But we thought it likely there was some kind of guard here.”

They come upon a large room filled with several rows of computer consoles and large screens on the walls. It looks like some kind of command center. Charles immediately begins investigating the computers, while Bucky prowls around the space. Something here smells familiar, and he and the wolf work together to isolate it. One by one, they identify the scents of lemon cleaning solution, bleach, mold, and old sweat. What’s left, when they’ve eliminated everything else, is just a thread of scent, a cologne, he thinks. Bucky doesn’t recognize it, but the wolf is snarling. His instincts scream that they need to get out. Which is when the screen overhead flicks on.

Bucky jumps and even Asil looks up, startled. Charles murmurs an apology. The screen is staticky at first, but resolves into a scene in black and white. There are four men on screen, three facing off against one. The three are wearing uniforms of some kind, armed with guns and batons and they’re facing--

Bucky swallows, staring up at himself on the screen. His head’s shaved and he’s naked from the waist up. He’s got no weapons, but his left arm-- His left arm is metal, and there’s a welted line of scarring where it meets his skin. Off screen, a voice commands in Russian, _"_ _Солдат, нападают на них."_  and without hesitation, the Bucky on the screen hurls himself at the uniformed men.

He stares up, frozen, watching himself beat a man to death. The wolf is a scream inside his head, demanding that he run, that they need to get out. ‘No,’ he commands the wolf. ‘No, this is the hunt. We have to watch-- we couldn't have killed everyone, and if they live…’

The wolf sends him the feeling of their jaws closing around a man’s throat, the satisfying spurt of blood, the feel of a spine cracking as they shake it. It's not a memory that Bucky has, but the wolf knows it happened, can happen again.

It’s maybe thirty seconds of watching himself on video before Charles pauses it. In the space of that time, Bucky’s managed to take down two opponents. On the screen, his metal fist is closed around the throat of the third man, caught in tableau, the moment before Bucky crushes his throat.

“James, I’m sorry.” Charles’s voice is shaken when he breaks the silence. “The file was queued up.”

Bucky takes a breath, forces himself to stillness, scenting again to make sure no one has snuck up on them. Then he says, “Play the rest.”

Charles hesitates a moment, but Bucky turns to look at him. “Charles. I need to see this. In case-- in case some of them survived.”

Asil snorts, but when they both turn to look at him, he waves a hand languidly. “Pretend I said nothing.”

Bucky walks closer to the screen, turns so he has sightline on the screen, the exit, and on Charles and Asil. Then the video’s back. It's hard, forcing himself to stillness as the images play, the end of each fight cutting abruptly into the start of a new one, first in black and white, later in color, the blood luridly red. To his right, Asil smells of eagerness, setting Bucky and his wolf even more on edge.

When the recording ends, they’ve watched at least a dozen fights. In the videos, three men survived him, their faces now imprinted in his brain. The wolf even associates one with the scent of garlic and a strange aftershave. He’s gathering himself to say something, when Charles clears his throat. “There are another 20 video files at least; who knows how many fights. I'm copying them, but it's going to take time.”

“I cannot watch more right now.” Asil’s urbane voice has a slight tremor in it. “I need-- it is better that I move around.”

Charles considers. “All right. The two of you should stick together, though.”

Bucky slants a look over to Asil, then nods at Charles. Together, they walk out of the room, Bucky letting Asil take the lead. His wolf wants to keep Asil where they can see him.

***

This place is sprawling, bigger than the other bases Bucky's visited, and for perhaps 30 or 40 minutes they pace through corridors, checking rooms that look abandoned. Occasionally, Bucky catches a whiff of that maddeningly familiar cologne.

They hear it first, the distant sounds that mean people are present, resolving into the sounds of people fighting-- flesh hitting flesh, feet thudding against concrete floor, harsh grunts. Together they move as quietly as they can, Asil taking point and Bucky falling in neatly on his six. There must be air scrubbers or something because it’s not until the sounds are resolving into different voices that Bucky is finally able to smell anything. Both of them pause, scenting.

Bucky can smell men, the smells he relates to war, to hunting-- gun oil, burnt flesh, metal, and blood. He still can't tell from that how many there are, but the sounds have resolved into five or six distinct voices. When he takes another breath, though, there's something familiar and not.

“Wolves,” Asil hisses. “And, something else.”

Bucky grimaces. “Or something mixed.”

Asil stares at him, or, rather, just over his shoulder, and Bucky has no idea what language that is, but Asil’s point is pretty fucking clear.

***

It takes them some time still to reach the training space. From what they hear, even through the walls, it must be big-- voices and sounds echoing. When they find the doors they pause a minute, work out a hasty plan in a conversation of silent gestures. Slowly, cautiously, Bucky opens the door, hinges sliding whisper-quiet, and they slip inside. They find themselves on a second-story catwalk above a large room. They aren’t alone, six men dressed in fatigues are stationed on the catwalk, watching the scene below with a tension that indicates they’re well-trained and ready to act.

None of them seems to notice Bucky and Asil, too focused on the scene below. Bucky glances down. Two groups of fighters are squared off, all of them drawn up tight, tense and waiting for the word to go. Bucky’s seen it many times-- at the gym, in the ring. There's something off about this, though, and it takes a few seconds for Bucky to realize what's wrong. When he does, he freezes.

The scene is what you might expect if you'd just watched those God damned videos: four large men in military gear holding weapons (‘Knives,’ some part of him catalogs, ‘a baton, probably electrified.’); three smaller figures, naked to the waist, no weapons, torsos and arms coming up in bruises. The smaller fighters are balanced lightly on the balls of their feet, facing off against their much larger opponents. They look, Bucky thinks half-hysterically, somewhere between 8 and 10 years old.

Vaguely, Bucky is aware that beside him Asil has also frozen, that he smells suddenly, viciously of rage, before he manages it tamp it down. Bucky is wrestling with his wolf, which is trying to take over, swamping his vision with red and screaming fury, an endless echoing no. And then from below a voice calls, “Engage!” and all Bucky hears is ' _Soldat, again!'_ echoing through his brain.

Down below, the kids are moving, one rushing forward against their opponents, but the other two are raising their heads, testing the air in a move that looks instinctive rather than trained. The kid who attacks starts to do the same, and is distracted enough that one of his-- her?-- opponents swings out and catches him in the throat, tossing him down hard enough that his head bounces on the concrete. There’s a frozen moment where it seems like no one breathes, and the two remaining children turn together to face the man. They're perfectly in sync, eyes glowing and a growl starting in their chests. The man below steps back, hands up, while every one of the guards on the catwalk draws on the two children.

“Stand down!” calls a voice, while the children continue to growl and stalk forward, and six soldiers above track the movement.

 _“Chingate!”_ Asil mutters under his breath. “Be ready.”

Asil leaps to the top of the railing around the catwalk, landing with enough of a clang that all eyes and half the rifles swing toward him. Bucky, snapped out of his shock, takes advantage of the distraction to palm one of his knives and move faster than human speed to the closest guard. He manages to get to the man before the others can do more than swing their guns around, jamming the knife between the guard’s ribs, then drawing it out and cutting his throat. He holds the body up like a shield to block the bullets.

The scent of blood rises up, and the kids below sway a little, but they don’t take their eyes off Asil, who claps his hands and calls out, “Little wolves!”

There’s a ripple from the guards, and down below Bucky can hear voices on the comms units. The kids are watching Asil carefully, though Bucky can see that even now they’re trying to move closer to their fallen comrade.

“Are you having fun, little wolves?” Asil asks, head cocked. “Do you enjoy playing with the humans, hmm?”

There’s a moment of silence, as if everyone is waiting for the kids to answer, then Bucky hears, “What are you waiting for?!”

Bucky’s drawn his guard’s side arm, and now he drops the body, bringing up his stump to steady his right arm, turning side-on and taking out the next two guards before he has to run, ducking a fusillade of bullets. The shooting catches the kids’ attention, and, as he leaps onto the fourth guard and begins to grapple, he hears a childish voice say with awe, “It’s the _Soldier!”_

Which is about the point when all hell breaks loose.

Bucky sees Asil leap down onto the floor below, then Bucky has to concentrate on dealing with his opponent. He manages to take him out, then rolls quickly, dragging the body with him to shield him from more gunfire. He throws a knife at the fifth guard, catches him high up on the shoulder, and while the man deals with that, drags the sidearm out of the body’s holster. He steadies his arm on the body in front of him and shoots the guard high up in the leg, bullet hitting with a spray of arterial blood.

The final guard on the catwalk is paying more attention to what’s happening on the floor than to Bucky, which doesn’t work in his favor. Bucky’s able to get close enough to take him out with two shots to the head. When he glances below, he sees that Asil has been joined by Charles, and they are grimly making their way through the men down there. The four fighters have been joined by more men with guns. The kids, whether acting on their own or orders from Asil, have grabbed their fallen compatriot, and retreated to a corner. They’ve found guns and, while Bucky watches, one of them shoots a man who’s approaching from Charles’ left.

Bucky’s taking aim at one of the men attacking Asil, when Charles calls up, “One of them is running.”

“Got it!” He quickly takes the shot, winging his target, then jumps down to the floor. He runs out the door Charles points to. On the way, he passes the kids, and there's something familiar, but he doesn’t have time to process it.

He rushes down the corridor, tracking the fresh scent, twisting and turning through the building. Eventually he catches up with his prey in a corridor. He leaps on the man, knocking him to the ground and wrapping his hand around his throat. He’s not squeezing hard enough, though, because the guy stares up at Bucky and says, “It’s you! Jesus, it’s you.”

Bucky growls, knocks the man’s head against the floor. “The fuck do you mean?”

The man glances at his left arm, and then sneers. “They said you were the greatest, but you’re nothing a cripple.” His eyes are manic, and Bucky has to force himself not to crush his throat. “You're a broken toy! Our new creations are perfect, whole! When they are trained--”

Bucky can’t stand it any longer. “Shut the fuck up, pal. No one’s training anyone.”

He starts to cut off the man’s oxygen to knock him out, but suddenly the man scrabbles at Bucky’s hand and then he bites down on something hidden in his mouth. Bucky gets a whiff of bitter almonds, and rears back instinctively, leaping up.

“Hail Hydra,” the man murmurs, and Bucky watches as he’s overcome by the drug, twitching and groaning until he’s nothing more than tainted meat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian is via Google translate, so apologies if it's wrong!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The situation is... complicated.

Washington, DC, March 15, 2013

“Hey, Steve, sorry to do this, but I'm going to have to cancel.” There's a sound of-- something, Steve can't isolate it and it's driving him nuts. “It's taking longer than we expected out here. The situation is... complicated.”

It's the third time Steve's listened to the message. Bucky's voice sounds… off. Like the sound in the background, Steve can't quite figure out what's making him feel so jumpy about it, but it sets his teeth on edge.

Overriding all of that is just… anger. Bucky didn’t even bother to tell him they were going into another base. As far as he knew, Bucky and Charles were still in the planning stages of this-- they weren't supposed to go for another couple of weeks. Steve has no idea why the timetable was moved up, where they are, what they're facing.

“Hey.”

Steve startles at Natasha's voice. When he turns to face her he knows his face is showing it. She looks at him hard for just a moment, before she smiles, threads her arm through his, and says brightly, “Excellent, I was looking for you! There’s a new lunch place in Courthouse I want to check out.” He hesitates, but then, under her breath, she hisses, “Come on,” and steps on his foot to get him moving, steering him down the hallway.

She keeps up a steady stream of chatter until they get to the garage, and then just tows him toward her car. It’s not until they’re out of the Triskelion and in Virginia that she asks, “What happened?”

Steve tugs at his seatbelt. “Uh, nothing.”

She turns to look at him, frowning. “You look like you got punched in the gut. Try again.”

“No, really, Natasha--” Steve lets go of the belt crosses his arms over his chest, then glances at her. “Everything’s fine.”

“Really.” She presses her lips together in annoyance, staring out the window and changing lanes aggressively. “Steve, if you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.” She waves her hand without looking at him. “You can’t lie for shit.”

He clenches his hands into fists. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She changes lanes again, then signals for the exit. “Fine.” For few minutes there’s silence as she weaves through the lunchtime traffic, until she reaches a parking lot. Then she gives him a small smile as she parks and says, “This place does New Orleans-style food. I’ve heard good things.”

Unwillingly, Steve sighs, then smiles back. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she grins as she hops out of the car. She turns and shoots him a look over the roof of the car. “I drove, you’re buying.”

* * *

Boston, MA, March 22, 2013

When Steve arrives in Boston, his anger feels banked. He’s had a week of stewing, but several hours on the bike, being forced to pay attention to traffic, makes him push it aside. Or, at least, avoid it for a while. When he arrives, he’s not angry. He’s also not worried. He’s just very determined that they all have a long talk about the importance of clear communication protocols.

Steve parks his bike in Bucky’s driveway, locks it. By the time he turns around to face the house, Bucky’s leaning against the doorway. There's a spill of light coming through the open door behind him, casting shadows across his face.

Steve straightens, squares his shoulders, and heads across the lawn. He watches Bucky, who’s dividing his attention between tracking Steve’s walk towards the house and watching cars turn onto his street. Steve hears the rumble of a diesel engine, watches Bucky flinch slightly. Something about Bucky’s reaction reminds Steve of the war.

Then Bucky's turning all his attention to Steve, acting as if he didn’t just flinch at the sound of street traffic. “Took you long enough. Traffic on 95?”

Steve feels himself bristle. He has to take a breath before he answers. ‘Calm,’ he thinks, ‘I am calm.’ “Some,” he manages, after a deep breath. “Took me awhile to get out of the city.”

Bucky nods, looking away, distracted by… something, Steve's not sure what. Steve’s close enough now that he can see the lines of fatigue in Bucky's body, the way he's slumped a bit more casually than he normally would be and the way he angles himself, just slightly, to put his right arm in front, like he could be ready to block a blow. Steve wonders if any of this means anything, because it sure as hell seems like he stopped being able to read Bucky the moment he woke up in 2012 and saw him standing in Stark’s guest suite.

“Get over here, Rogers,” Bucky growls.

Steve walks up the stairs. He steps closer and Bucky looks-- Steve blinks. He's too thin. There are hollows under his eyes and his cheeks gone concave. He’s clearly not sleeping enough. Steve stops, looking him up and down, and taking it in-- One of the few things in the twenty-first century that he's been grateful for is Bucky looking healthy, like he used to before the war. Tonight? This is not--

“Gonna stand there staring all day?” Bucky cocks a hip, angles himself so that Steve can get a better look.

“Bucky--” Steve feels instantly annoyed. He looks back up to give Bucky a piece of his mind, but then he catches Bucky licking his lips and has to hold in a groan. Life is, to quote Tony Stark, a fucking bitch. Even when Steve’s pissed off, even when he’s worried, he can't help but be turned on by James Buchanan Barnes. In the doorway, Bucky relaxes a bit, and he’s almost-- almost  _ displaying  _ himself now.

“What?” Bucky smirks at him. “Like what you see?” Bucky takes in a deep lungful of air, then as his eyes meet Steve's, they go golden. “Yeah, you do.” His smile is edging into vicious. It reminds Steve of 1944, waiting in a command tent-- “This,” Bucky taps the side of his nose, “doesn't lie.”

Steve feels stuck in place, feels like he’s walked out onto a frozen pond and now the ice is cracking under his feet. They've been ignoring this, this whatever it is, for the last several months. Steve has actively, aggressively, been respecting Bucky’s fucking boundaries.  _ Now _ Bucky's choosing to act on it?

Steve manages, just barely, to keep his voice even when he talks. “Never been a problem for you before, Buck.” Despite this, Bucky's grin gets more knowing.

“Come here, Rogers.” Bucky steps forward, grabs Steve's jacket, pulls him forward with a strength that matches Steve's own. Steve knows that, if he wanted to stop, he'd have to work pretty damn hard. This has never failed to turn him on. Steve goes along with it, lets Bucky take the lead, and, when his momentum stops pulling him forward, they're chest to chest, lips just inches from each other.

Bucky leans forward, into him, angling so his cheek is brushing against Steve’s, stubble catching. His lips rest against Steve's ear, and he says in a quiet growl, “I want you to fuck me, Rogers. Hmmm?”

This is so fucked up. Steve can feel Bucky's hot breath on his ear, against his neck. When Bucky says the words, his mind goes absolutely white-hot blank. He takes a deep, unsteady breath.

Bucky catches Steve’s earlobe between his teeth. He bites down. Just the littlest bit, just enough for a pinprick of pain, there and gone. Steve shivers. Bucky lets go, then murmurs, “What are you waiting for?”

Steve breathes in, out. Settles his hands on Bucky's waist, feeling heat rise through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He watches Bucky’s face. “You sure about this?”

Bucky chuckles in his ear, a low, rich sound that hits Steve hard, makes him close his fingers tighter, take a firmer grip on Bucky's waist. “Sure, I'm sure.” His mouth slips fractionally lower, to the skin below Steve’s ear. He licks a path down Steve’s neck, and then he bites lightly on Steve’s clavicle, sucks hard. When he draws back, Steve's shaking, and Bucky murmurs, “This too much for you, pal? Want me to back off?”

Steve's suddenly, blazingly hard. His hands clamp down on Bucky's hips, fingers sliding under his t-shirt. Steve feels hot skin against his palms, stretched taut over Bucky's ribs. Bucky's words are like a taunt, another dare. They're on Bucky's porch and, with the light behind them, anyone could see them, but all of Steve’s attention is on Bucky. It’s all he can do not to press Bucky back against the porch wall and drop down on his knees.

“I think,” Steve grits out, looking into Bucky's eyes, “that we should take this inside.” He just thrusts forward once, grinding slowly against Bucky, unsurprised to find him hard. “Unless you want to give your neighbors a show.”

“Tempting,” Bucky chuckles, leaning in for one more bite at Steve’s neck. Steve feels his knees buckle a little, fights to firm them. “But no.” Bucky takes a step back, and Steve forces himself to let go. Bucky turns to go back inside, then tosses over his shoulder, “C’mon, Rogers. What are you waiting for?”

***

Inside, Steve stops a minute in the dining room, shucking his jacket and letting his eyes adjust to the light. He takes the opportunity to take a good look at Bucky, and he has that sense again of having gone back in time-- it could be any point in ‘44, when they spent more time on missions than in camp, never enough rations for the seven of them. Bucky looks feral, too-thin, too-wide eyes darting everywhere.

“Bucky.” Steve knows his voice is too soft, that concern is not going to help, but he can’t stop himself. “Buck, what happened?”

Bucky freezes for half a second before he turns to look at Steve. For just a moment, he lets down his guard and Steve can tell something happened at that Hydra base, something bad. Then Bucky straightens, smirking, and it's gone.

“Nothing.” He steps into Steve again, lips quirking. “Nothing’s  _ gonna _ happen, pal, if you're just going to stand there.”

“Bucky…”

Bucky’s hand closes on Steve's ribs, and he leans in again, voice deeper. “Was it always this much trouble to get you into bed, Rogers? Or ‘m I doing something wrong?”

He leans in and Steve can't help bending to meet him, pushing into the kiss. Bucky fights for a control for a moment, then he relaxes, mouth going soft and open against Steve’s.

They stand there for a while, just kissing, chests rubbing up against one another, until finally, Bucky wraps his right arm around Steve's waist, the remains of his left arm resting on Steve's bicep. Bucky begins slowly, steadily, walking them down the hallway. Steve goes with it, doesn't have it in him to fight this, not when he's kissing Bucky for the first time in months, Bucky's kissing him for the first time in decades.

Steve shouldn't be surprised when they don't bump into any walls, but he is. That, more than anything, means he feels compelled to break the kiss, head coming up, when they step into Bucky's bedroom. Steve’s never been in here before, but he doesn’t have time to do more than glance around the room before Bucky's hand is on his cheek, pulling him close again.

The only light in the room is from the street, filtering in through the windows. The windows are open to catch the warming spring air, the curtains brushing softly against the window frame as the wind blows. When Bucky pulls back, Steve keeps his eyes closed, just for a few seconds. When he blinks them open, Bucky's already stepped closer to the bed, his right hand going back over his head to grip the back of his t-shirt, drag it up and off. In the weak light from the window, Steve feels himself staring. Bucky's just as beautiful as he was during the war, even when he’s too-thin and on-edge. Even with the scars that twist down his left side. And just like he would, back during the war, Bucky tries to turn Steve’s attention aside, growling, “Take a picture, Rogers.”

It makes Steve laugh for the first time this crazy evening. He lets himself grin. “You’re still mouthy,” he says. “Still too busy talking.”

Bucky’s got his hand at his waistband, snapping the button on his jeans open. “You're the one across the room, pal. This ain't a show.”

“No?” Steve cocks his head, waves at where the moonlight is coming in, painting Bucky silver. “Seems like the spotlight’s on you, Barnes.”

He can see Bucky decide to take up the challenge. He cocks his hips up a little more, hand coming down to drag across the denim of his jeans and mold the outline of his hard cock. Bucky quirks a smile as he touches himself and Steve’s mouth goes dry.

“Oh, that what you want, Steve?” Bucky rubs his hand over the line of his cock. He rubs himself once, twice, before he catches the zipper on his jeans between his thumb and forefinger and starts to drag it down. Then he gives a little shimmy with his hips, and the jeans slip down until they catch on the curve of his ass.

His skin is pale, the waistband digging into the skin at Bucky’s hips. Steve is done waiting. In two steps he’s across the room, in front of Bucky, hands catching the waistband of his jeans and underwear, dragging them down by the belt loops. Steve goes with them, until he’s kneeling on the floorboards, Bucky’s cock right in front of him. He leans in and nuzzles, inhaling. His smell hasn’t changed-- warm musk, faint trace of soap. Steve rests his chin on Bucky’s lower belly and  looks up. Bucky seems shocked, his hand hovering over Steve’s head.

“Steve?” Bucky sounds, for the first time tonight, unsure, a little confused.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says. “Yeah, it’s me.” And then he leans in and licks a stripe up Bucky’s dick, catching the head in his mouth to suck. Bucky brings his hand down to rest against Steve’s head.

For long moments, Steve works Bucky’s cock. He sucks hard, takes in as much of Bucky’s cock as he can, and stores away every little huff and grunt he wrings out of him. Bucky’s hand is curling in Steve’s hair, no longer careful, until he’s tugging hard enough that Steve’s eyes water. He pulls off Bucky’s cock, rests his head on Bucky’s belly, as Bucky gentles his grip, rubbing at Steve’s hair.

“I was serious about wanting you to fuck me,” Bucky smirks down at Steve. “And you’re a little overdressed.”

Steve buries a smile in Bucky’s belly, sucking at the skin there before pulling back. “That so?”

Bucky shakes his head, grabs Steve’s hair again, and drags him up to standing. “Guess if you want something done right…” He starts pushing Steve’s shirt up. It’s awkward, with his dick out, his jeans falling down his thighs, and only one arm to manage it all with. Steve takes over, pulling his shirt off, and Bucky goes to work on Steve’s jeans, tugging at buttons and zipper. When Steve kicks them down and steps out of them, Bucky grins. “Finally.” Then he gives Steve a shove.

Steve goes down onto the bed with an unexpected huff of breath. Something hits his chest, and, while he’s trying to figure out what it is, Bucky kneels beside him on the bed.

“Gimme the lube,” Bucky says, gesturing. When Steve freezes, he shakes his head and mutters, “Gotta do everything myself.” He reaches across Steve to grab the tube up from the sheets. Steve just stares as Bucky flips open the cap with his thumb, squeezing so the clear liquid covers his fingers, and then he drops the tube back into the sheets.

Steve watches him, confused. “What are you--?”

And then Steve feels stupid, face going hot, when Bucky raises an eyebrow and says, “What, this?” right arm bends behind himself and he--

Steve’s brain whites out a few seconds, staring at where Bucky’s hand is between his legs, left arm out for balance. “You could help a little, Rogers,” he says, but his voice is smugly amused and then, as his fingers press in, he catches his breath on a little moan, “Oh--”

It kicks Steve into action, makes him sit up, grab Bucky’s hips to steady him before Steve slides his right hand back, fingers tangling with Bucky’s. He gathers some of the slick on his fingers until he can push Bucky’s hand away and bring his index finger to Bucky’s hole.

“Yes,” Bucky hisses, “that’s it.”

Steve stares as Bucky’s eyelids dip closed. He watches the expressions dance across Bucky’s face as he adds a second finger and a third.

Back in the war, they’d only done this a few times but Steve remembers exactly how to move his fingers, how to get Bucky loose and ready, until finally Bucky opens his eyes, until he says, voice rough and growling, “Enough.”

Carefully, Steve lowers Bucky to the mattress. Bucky growls something about not being fragile, and Steve shuts him up with a kiss. He hitches Bucky’s legs up around his waist, pushing his knees up and back. Steve grabs his cock, stroking it to slick it up and then, while Bucky’s still grumbling about stubborn assholes taking their sweet time, he lines up and pushes in.

“Ahhh,” Bucky groans, and Steve smirks, because finally, finally he managed to shut him up. It’s the last coherent thought he has for a while.

It takes them time to find a rhythm, bumping against one another out of sync, Bucky’s hand gripping Steve’s shoulder and his left arm stretched taut, so Steve sees the remaining muscles straining. It distracts him for a minute, until Bucky says, “Steve,  _ Steve, _ ” and he turns back to Bucky’s face. “Move with me,” Bucky says, “Just--”

Steve pauses, just a few seconds, until he catches Bucky’s rhythm, and then they’re moving together. It’s good, it’s  _ so _ good. Bucky is arching in his arms as Steve changes angles, thrusts a little harder. Bucky thrusts back just as hard, moans, “Jesus, Steve, God, yes, right there--” So Steve keeps going, faster, harder, Bucky keeping up with each shift in tempo and pushing it quicker, rougher, in turn. Sweat drips down Steve’s face, Bucky’s hand slipping from Steve’s shoulder to his bicep, gripping with bruising force. Steve twists his hips, changing the angle, and Bucky shouts, arching, so Steve does it again and again, until Bucky’s gasping, clenching around Steve, impossibly tight. It takes a moment for Steve to realize Bucky’s coming, and then Steve’s going over too, eyes closed, head thrown back, voice practically a scream.

Steve’s slow to come down, hips still thrusting, as he pants against Bucky’s throat. It’s not until Bucky slaps his arm that he picks his head up and sees the grimace as Bucky says, “Stop.” He stills reluctantly and Bucky gives a little sigh, going loose and languid. Steve drops his head down to rest on the ball of Bucky’s right shoulder, feels Bucky’s hand stroke down his back and come to rest right below the curve of his ass. Slowly, Steve relaxes, until his cock slips out. He shifts so he’s not on top of Bucky, curling up on his side, arm across Bucky’s chest. Steve stays quiet, listening to Bucky’s breathing slow, letting his own heartbeat slip back into a normal rhythm.

In sleep, Bucky’s breathing is deep and even. Curled up behind him, Steve can’t help but let his hand rest over Bucky’s heart. He falls asleep like this, with the assurance Bucky’s here, really here. It may be the first time, since they tramped up that fucking mountain in two days’ worth of snow, that Steve almost feels like himself.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Compartmentalization

Boston, MA, March 23, 2013 

Bucky's got a full breakfast going by the time Steve makes it to the kitchen. There’s a frittata in the oven and bacon crackling on the stove. The wolf perks up when they hear Steve start to wake up, when they smell him coming down the hall, a potent mixture of sweat and spunk and musk. Steve’s smiling as he enters the kitchen, and he doesn't hesitate to walk right up to Bucky, slip an arm around his shoulders and reel him in for a good morning kiss.

“Smells great, Buck.”

Bucky twists out of his grasp easily, points to the coffee maker with the spatula. “Help yourself.”

He knows he’s a little tense, but Steve seems to be oblivious enough, grabbing a cup of coffee and doctoring it with milk and sugar. “Thanks for making breakfast.”

Steve leans against the counter to watch and it makes Bucky itchy, restless. Bucky shrugs. “You could make yourself useful,” he says, glancing down at the timer, and then tossing Steve a towel. “Pull the pan out of the oven.”

“Sure.” Steve's voice is calm, steady.

Over breakfast Bucky tries to keep things quiet, easy. Steve asks about the kids and their training, whether Bucky's working this weekend. He tells a funny story about a woman Natasha set him up with, but that just makes Bucky feel tense again, until he stands abruptly to get them more coffee. After that, they eat in silence.

“I'm going for a run,” Steve says, hovering by the dining room table as Bucky steps toward the hallway and a shower.

“Okay.” Bucky turns and watches him, runs his fingers through his hair.

“What?” Steve's still smiling, though Bucky thinks it looks a little strained.

“Just,” Bucky shakes his head, “this isn't DC, pal.”

“Really?” Steve narrows his eyes, voice going flat and sarcastic. “And here I was thinking I'd just taken a wrong turn on the Rock Creek.”

“I just meant you can't pull that superhuman running act.” Bucky shrugs. “It's not part of the plan that you out yourself on a visit.”

“Part of the plan.” Steve's frowning now. Bucky can see Steve check himself before he puts his hands out. Steve’s voice is conciliatory as he says, “I'll keep myself to a realistic pace, Buck.”

Bucky pretends not to hear Steve's parting shot, mumbled under his breath-- “There goes the afterglow, pal.”

***

Steve’s gone on his run a long time. He barely says hello when get gets back, just heads straight to the shower. Bucky busies himself with cleaning the living room, the bedroom. As soon as he hears the shower shut off, he starts the laundry. He’s in the kitchen, wiping down the counters when Steve comes to find him. Steve’s wearing a dark green henley that’s a size too small, like all his shirts, and Bucky can’t help but look him up and down. He looks damn good. Fuck.

Steve leans against the wall, blocking the doorway from the kitchen to the rest of the house. His mouth is set in an angry line when he asks, “So are you gonna tell me what happened last week?”

Bucky narrows his eyes at the question, Steve’s choice of position, but stays calm. “Nothing happened.”

“Bullshit.” Steve crosses his arms, glaring. “You take off out of the blue, don't even tell me you're going, never mind where--”

Bucky lets go of the sponge he’s holding, turns to fully face Steve. “We agreed you wouldn't know where. Less chance you'd accidentally spill.”

“You agreed.” Steve straightens from the wall. “You think I _like_ not knowing where the hell you are?”

“You gonna tell me the eleven months you been in the future made you any better of a liar.” Bucky shakes his head-- they both know Steve still can’t lie to save his life.

Steve flushes, clenches his jaw. “Oh, so _that_ you remember.”

Bucky starts. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve shakes his head, then takes a step further into the room. “Fine. I'm a shitty liar, but that doesn't mean you don't tell me when you're throwing yourself into danger.” He drops his arms and rests his hands on the counter, leaning forward into Bucky’s space. “Jesus, Buck, I know _exactly_ what it's like to lose you and it was hell.”

“You're not going to lose me, Rogers.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Besides, you got a couple of guys to watch your back now, does it matter?”

“What? Of course it damn well matters!” Steve slams his hand on the counter. “Look at you!”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus.” Steve throws his right hand out, waving it up and down, and Bucky’s tempted to smack it away. “You're fucking skin and bones. You’ve got that look you used to, when you'd take Gabe’s watch and Monty’s, sometimes Dernier’s. You're drawn so tight the wrong thing’s going to make you snap.”

“I'm fine.” Bucky resists the urge to growl-- all him, the wolf curled in the back of his skull. “I'm _fine._  Yeah, this one was rougher than most.” He’s reluctant to admit it, but, okay, it’s true, and leaving those kids with Charles and Asil had been both a relief and-- He shakes his head. “Whatever, it’s done.”

“What’s done? What was so hard?” Steve asks. Bucky isn’t sure what to say. When he stays silent, Steve just swears and turns away. “God damn it! You’re not going to even tell me, are you?”

Bucky takes a step back, trying to disengage. “You're a spy now, you know about compartmentalization.” He turns his back on Steve, facing the sink and turning on the tap. Gives a short prayer that Steve will just walk away. When Steve grabs his shoulder, Bucky turns, wolf-quick, thrusting his arm out and shoving Steve back against the wall. Steve stays there, stunned, and Bucky narrows his eyes, watches him.

“So that’s it.” Steve’s voice is quiet, full of hurt, and the wolf whines in his head. “You don’t trust me now.”

Bucky sighs, he isn’t sure where this conversation is going. “Of course I trust you.”

“Not with what you’ve learned. Not with a fight that matters.”

Abruptly, Bucky feels furious again. “I think you’ve got no idea how dangerous this is, how easy it would be to make a wrong move. You got to fight Hydra during a war, when it was clear who was on what side, and you knew who the bad guys were because they started shooting at you.” He let’s go of Steve’s shoulder and takes one step back. “This isn’t the fucking war. We have a lot to risk if it goes wrong.”

Steve’s hands curl into fists at his side. “So let me help you!”

“No,” Bucky shifts so he’s balanced on his feet, ready for anything. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about SHIELD. Find out what they’re doing.”

“And?” There’s a long pause, then Steve sags back against the wall. “You’re not going to tell me anything else, are you?” He drops his eyes, briefly, drags his hand over his face. When he looks up, his eyes blaze with anger. “Fuck you.” He swallows. “Fine, you want me to worry about SHIELD? Then I’ll worry about SHIELD.” Steve pushes off from the wall. “I’m gone. You can keep your fucking secrets.”

Steve straightens and for a moment Bucky thinks he’s going to throw a punch. In the end, Steve simply turns and marches back down the hall, towards the bedroom. Bucky can hear the sounds of cloth on cloth. He steps out of the kitchen and into the dining room, stands next to the dining room table. It’s no time at all before Steve comes back out, moving fast, wearing his leather jacket, and holding his duffel over his left shoulder. Steve stops, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, and then shakes his head as he closes it again.

Bucky just stands there, watching as Steve lets himself out, then turns to watch Steve through the dining room windows as he steps out onto the porch.

Steve doesn’t bother to close the front door behind him. Instead, he pauses at the top of the porch stairs, says quietly, “I wish you could trust me.” Then he waits a beat, two beats. Bucky doesn’t say anything, he isn’t sure what there is to say. After a moment, Steve stomps down the stairs and Bucky hears the motorcycle roar to life.

Bucky stands there in the dining room. Front door ajar. He tracks the sounds of Steve’s bike heading down the driveway, turning onto his street, and then taking the left that takes him out to the main road. He strains his hearing as far as he can, as long as he can. Eventually, all that’s left the wolf howling in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end of part 4. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it-- comments, kudos, questions, are all welcome. I'm momosandlemonsoda over on tumblr if you want to yell at me about werewolf!Bucky being a dumbass.
> 
> Just a note that it took 18 months of work to get this into shape to post. The final part of this epic is drafted and with my beta. I hope it won't take so long to finish it, but we've both got big life things going on (new jobs, big moves, kids, etc) so it might take a while before it's posted. But it _will_ be posted. I can't wait to share it with you.
> 
> In the meantime, I'll probably post some side stories about the teen werewolves Bucky mentors, since they have their own role to play in this story.


End file.
